


shadow of the day

by sevensevan



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/F, Found Family, Healing, Horror, Lesbian Faith Lehane, Pining, Season/Series 04, Slow Burn, Trauma, can i tag this horror?, flagrant disrespect for the canonical layout of buffy’s house, it is HERE y'all
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2019-10-20 18:38:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 74,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17627543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevensevan/pseuds/sevensevan
Summary: Faith wakes up just three weeks after graduation. She skips town with a knife in her belt, a warrant out for her arrest, and an unshakeable feeling that someday, somehow, she'll find her way back to Buffy.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> it's here yall.
> 
> if you follow me on tumblr, i haven't shut up about working on this fic for the past two months—and for good reason. i have a few chapters written, about half the fic outlined, and plans to continue this au all the way through season six, maybe even season seven. this thing has been absorbing all of my mental space for a few months now, and probably will until i get every last bit of it written.
> 
> huge thanks to [rippergiles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rippergiles) for beta reading this chapter. it is definitely more coherent now than it initially was.
> 
> enjoy.

Faith is cold when she wakes up.

She keeps her eyes closed, somehow not wanting to know where she is. Maybe Buffy really did kill her on that rooftop. Maybe Faith bled out in the street, and when she opens her eyes, she’ll be in hell. Maybe she’s in some demon dimension somewhere, being punished for the rest of the eternity.

(She had always figured hell would be hot. Fire and brimstone and all that. She had heard a lot of Catholic preaching growing up, but it had never scared her. She’d had a long time to get used to the idea. But this—it’s _cold_ , wherever she is, and Faith can feel goose bumps on her arms—it reminds her of Boston, and winter, and ice on the streets, and not having anywhere to go.

Maybe hell is a little more personal than the churches used to tell her it is. Maybe Faith’s hell is just this: dark and cold and alone, forever.)

But hell probably doesn’t come with beeping heart monitors and scratchy sheets, so Faith starts to open her eyes. She’s just cracked them open, letting in a bit of harsh fluorescent light, when she hears footsteps.

They’re a long way away, maybe a hundred feet or so, her Slayer hearing picking up on them from a distance. They echo, a slow, staccato beat coming closer. Faith can hear the heart monitor picking up speed, beeping rapidly, and through sheer force of will, she forces it back down, forces her heart to stay slow and rhythmic. It’s not as slow as it would be if she were still sleeping, but it’s slow enough that whoever’s coming won’t notice that she’s awake. Faith’s not sure why she does it, why she doesn’t just get up and fight whoever’s coming, fight her way out of wherever she is, but her instincts are screaming at her to _stay down_ , and they don’t often fail her. She takes long, slow breaths, keeps her eyes closed, and waits.

A door opens. Faith hears the hinges squeak faintly, her Slayer hearing picking up the sound, though it’s too high-pitched for any human to notice. The footsteps cross the room and come to a stop by Faith’s bedside. Something metal scrapes across the floor. Whoever else is in the room sighs heavily. Then the source of the footsteps begins to speak.

“Hey, Faith,” Buffy Summers says into the silence of the room. “How are you today?”

Faith doesn’t answer. She takes a long breath, as slowly and silently as possible, and clenches her fingers into fists beneath the thin blanket covering her body. Her nails dig into her palms, and she focuses on the tiny pinpricks of pain, instead of the adrenaline snaking its way through her body. It’s all she can do to keep her breathing steady and pray her heartbeat doesn’t spike the way it always has around Buffy—in fear and anger as of late, but before that…

(Faith doesn’t like to think about _before_.)

“I’m guessing that means same as always?” Buffy asks after a minute, waiting as if she expects Faith to answer. Faith presses her tongue between her teeth, trying to stop herself from clenching her jaw. If there was ever a time to not let her anger get the best of her—well, it probably would’ve been any number of times before now, any time that might’ve stopped Faith from ending up _here_ : listening to Buffy talk, hoping she hasn’t come back to finish the job she started on that rooftop, hoping she didn’t bring a knife.

_Better late than never, right?_

“Yeah, me, too,” Buffy says. There’s the sound of fabric shifting against what Faith can only assume is the chair Buffy is sitting in—likely the source of the earlier scraping sound. “I’m…I don’t know. I guess I should be happy, right? I graduated. I stopped another apocalypse. The Mayor is snake shish kebab at the bottom of the high school crater.” Faith’s fists slip tighter, and she feels blood begin to seep out of her palms. “And, hey, not that many innocent people died!”

_The boss is dead?_

“But I’m just…not,” Buffy says. “I’m not happy.” Faith snorts mentally.

_Yeah, me fuckin’ either, Blondie_. _Probably has something to do with the knife wound_.

“I keep thinking,” Buffy says. “You know, my mom misses you?” Faith’s fists unclench slightly. _Misses me?_ “She hasn’t actually, like, said it in those words, but…every time I come visit you, she asks how you’re doing, and she always thinks she’s doing a great job of hiding it but she’s always upset when I say nothing’s changed, and I can tell. She doesn’t understand why you did it. She doesn’t know what she did wrong.”

_Every time I come visit you_. This isn’t the first time Buffy’s been here? Wherever _here_ actually is? How long has she been asleep?

_Mrs. S didn’t do anything wrong_. Faith digs her nails into the cuts on her palms again, cutting off the thought. It’s not a thought she’s supposed to have. These aren’t _feelings_ she’s supposed to have. This isn’t—Joyce Summers had cut her off, cut her out, judged her, looked down on her just like the rest of them, right from the start. _She doesn’t have the fucking_ right _to miss me_. _She barely_ knew _me. She never cared about me._

“Anyway,” Buffy is saying. “I have something for you.” The intimately familiar sound of steel on leather, of a blade being unsheathed, fills the room, and every nerve in Faith’s body reacts. Despite her best efforts, the heart monitor begins to beep erratically as adrenaline floods into her veins. “Whoa!” Buffy says. “Faith?” Faith jerks her head to the side, trying to look as though she’s stirring in her sleep.

_It’s just a nightmare, B. Keep talking._

“Faith?” Buffy says again, gentler this time, almost pleading. Faith feels the weight of one of Buffy’s hands pressing on the side of her bed, and she can just about picture it: Buffy leaning over her bed, looking down at Faith hopefully, expectantly, that stupid, innocent, wide-eyed look on her face.

_Like she_ wants _me to wake up. Why? So she can kill me without offending her fucking moral compass? Newsflash, Buffy: if you want me dead, you’re going to have to get on my level._

Mentally, Faith adjusts the picture. She imagines Buffy’s other hand holding a knife high in the air, waiting for Faith to wake up, waiting for an excuse to bring it down through her ribcage.

(It’s easier on Faith’s mind and heart, to picture Buffy that way. It’s easier to think of Buffy wanting to kill her than wanting her to wake up.)

“Faith…” Buffy sounds _upset_ now. _God, what fucking bullshit_. “God, for a moment I thought…I guess not, though.” Faith hears Buffy setting something down, presumably on a table, beside her. “That, um, that belongs to you. Oh, wait, I should probably hide it, huh? Don’t need the cops or the nurses taking it.” _Cops?_

There’s a quiet moment, then a gentle hand slides beneath the pillow Faith’s head is resting on. Faith goes with it, allowing Buffy to lift her head up and slip something under her pillow. Buffy can’t possibly know that Faith’s been sleeping with a knife under her pillow for years, but when she puts Faith’s head back down, the familiar feeling of the weapon beneath her head is comforting all the same. Faith _hates_ that feeling, hates that Buffy is the reason she can suddenly breathe a little more smoothly. She hates _Buffy_.

(But then, that’s never really been quite true, has it?)

“I went patrolling last night,” Buffy says. “Got mobbed by six vamps. They were actually smart, it was kinda freaky. Anyways, I won, obviously, but it was tough. And scary. And I—I kept turning around expecting you to be helping, only you weren’t there. Which is, like, a seriously dumb expectation, because even before the whole stabbing—which I _am_ sorry about, by the way—you were pretty…not there. But, I don’t know, I guess I got used to someone having my back, and me having someone else’s back. And now I have my own back again, only it doesn’t feel right anymore because I got so used to someone else’s back, and…” Buffy trails off. “See, this is why it sucks, you being all coma-y,” she says. “You’re supposed to interrupt me, like, thirty seconds ago and make fun of me for rambling.”

_Oh,_ that’s _why it sucks? Not the stabbing? Or the future scarring? Or just me being in a fucking coma?_ Everything’s still all about Buffy, Faith guesses. Some things never change.

“Anyway,” Buffy says. “I have to go, but…this might be the last time I visit, because Giles is getting on my back about moving on and coming to terms and he’s talking about Angel, usually, but he might have a point. But on the off chance you can hear me, I just, um, I wanna say I’m sorry. For—for not trying harder to accept you. For leaving you in that awful motel. For just—assuming you could kill some vampires and be fine and—and not need any help, I guess. With Kakistos and—everything else. In my defense, your whole tough-girl thing is really convincing, and you didn’t seem like you wanted any help. But I of all people should’ve known better. And, um, I should’ve tried harder. To help you. And I guess it’s too late, now, but I’m still sorry.” Faith hears the scraping of the chair on the floor once more. She feels a hand, light and soft as anything, brush a stray strand of hair off her forehead. It’s an almost affectionate gesture, and Faith can’t quite reconcile it with the picture in her head, the one where Buffy is waiting to kill her. “Wake up someday,” Buffy whispers, so quietly that for a moment, Faith isn’t sure she’s heard anything. “I’ll do it right, next time. All of it.” Then the footsteps recede, the doors open and close, and Buffy is gone.

Faith slowly opens her eyes. By now, she’s deduced that she’s likely in a hospital, and the bright lights on the white ceiling confirm it. Slowly, Faith looks around, still lying down. She flicks her eyes over every corner of the ceiling, but sees no cameras. Deciding to risk it, Faith sits up.

The room is barren and chilly. It doesn’t seem like a hospital should be this cold, but Faith is shivering slightly in her paper gown. Shivering, and panicking.

The Mayor is dead. The high school is a crater, apparently, so graduation and ascension and all that probably didn’t go according to plan. The Mayor is dead, and Buffy is alive, and Faith is…

(It might not be hell, but waking up in a hospital and listening to Buffy Summers having the _fucking nerve_ to _apologize_ to her feels a lot like purgatory.)

Faith listens, closing her eyes once more. From what she remembers, Buffy never bothered learning how to use her Slayer senses, _really_ use them. It’s her loss. They’ve saved Faith’s life on more than one occasion, and right now, they might just give her a shot at getting it back. She _listens_. First to the heart monitor, to the steady, rhythmic beeping of her own life. Then she turns her hearing outward, into the hall Buffy came out of. Faith can hear two people out there, standing by her door, breathing, shifting, one of them whistling softly. She reaches out further, but can’t hear anyone else in either direction. Buffy is already long gone.

Just to be safe, Faith reaches out with another sense, too: the connection between herself and Buffy. It’s been there since the day Faith was Called, and it’s only gotten stronger since she came to Sunnydale. Funny, it’s grown stronger since that night in the alley when Faith killed Finch. It’s always in the back of Faith’s mind, a prickling, burning sensation that reminds Faith of the day she found out the hard way that she’s allergic to bees, years ago: like scorpions, crawling around under her skin.

(Only, on the good days, before there was blood on Faith’s hands, it didn’t hurt.)

The Slayer connection isn’t exactly precise when it comes to geographic location. From what Faith can tell, it’s more of an emotional connection than anything. Still, the faintness, the seeming distance of Buffy’s mind from hers, is all the reassurance Faith needs before she makes her move.

In one motion, Faith slides out of the hospital bed, easing out her IV and ripping off all of cords and monitors attached to her. The heart monitor flatlines, and the sound fills the room: one long, solid tone, urgent in pitch and sounding somehow, to Faith, like a warning. Like it’s telling her not to leave.

“Shut up,” she tells the machine. She grabs the knife from under her pillow. There’s nowhere to put it in her thin paper gown, so she just holds it, her fingers wrapping tightly around the handle.

It’s the knife from the rooftop. Faith’s knife. Her gift form the Mayor.

There’s no blood on it. Buffy must’ve cleaned it after it came out of Faith’s stomach. Faith wonders if it bothered Buffy at all, having to wash Faith’s blood off her hands and her knife. Faith doubts it. It was for Angel, after all. A lot of people have suffered for Buffy to be in love; Faith is just another name on the list, one Buffy probably doesn’t even have to feel guilty about. _She probably saves the guilt for people who deserve it_.

Faith walks across the room, wincing at the cold floor beneath her bare feet. She’s utterly silent, her Slayer instincts sharp as ever despite… _weeks? Months?_ …of inactivity. She’s lost weight, though; she can feel that. Whatever they were giving her through the IV probably wasn’t designed to support a Slayer’s metabolism. Her muscles are still supernaturally powerful, but there’s not much of them left. The two humans outside the door won’t be a problem, but if Faith runs into a vampire…

Well. She just hopes there’s daylight out.

Faith stands just inside the door, one hand on the handle, and listens again. The two people outside haven’t moved. The one has stopped whistling, but she can hear both their breathing. One on either side of the door.

_Guards_.

Faith looks down at the knife in her hand. In one smooth motion, she pushes the door open and steps through, flicking the knife out to one side. It sinks into one of the guard’s sides, gutting them, and the other can barely turn to look before the knife is out again and buried in their throat. Both bodies sink to the ground, already bleeding out on the cold hospital floor.

Faith blinks the imagined scene away. She’s still standing inside her hospital room, her knuckles white around the handle of the knife. She hasn’t killed anyone, not yet. The door is still closed in front of her. It would be so easy, though, to step out and go through with it, to kill whoever’s out there before they can even see her face. But… _They’re just doing their jobs. And they’re human, so they’re not a threat to me. And…and no one’s told me to kill them_. Faith adds the latter as an afterthought. She had killed a man who was just doing his job before. She’ll do it again if she has to. But not without orders. Not unprompted, unwarranted, with no reward on the other side.

(She doesn’t like the feeling of blood under her fingernails as much as she used to think she would.)

Faith swings the door open as hard as she can and feels it connect with the face of whoever’s on her left with a satisfying clang. Her eyes flick to the right, taking in the cop, in uniform, standing by the door. He starts to turn towards her, eyes widening, hand reaching for his gun, but it’s like he’s moving through jello, slow and clumsy. Faith’s hand darts out, and she yanks his stun gun from his belt. She jabs him with it before his hand even reaches his pistol.

The cop slumps to the floor, twitching. Faith spins, raising the taser again. The cop on the left is already on the floor, nose bleeding, eyes shut. Faith is stronger than she thought she would be, if hitting him with the door had knocked him out. Again, Faith wonders what day it is, how long she’s been asleep.

Just to be safe, Faith stuns the man on the left. His unconscious body twitches and writhes, and Faith swears she can see his eyes rolling in their sockets through his eyelids. The sight makes Faith shiver, but she blames it on the cold hospital air and moves on. She tosses the stun gun onto the floor in front of the two cops and looks around. She needs to get out of here, and fast. If there were cops posted outside her door, there will be more looking for her once they find out she’s awake. Faith may still be stronger than she thought, and Sunnydale PD may be utterly, truly, deeply incompetent, but she can’t fight every cop in town.

Down the hall, a door labelled _Employees Only_ beckons. Faith pushes through it, and finds herself in some sort of break room, complete with couches, a coffee maker, and a mini fridge. It’s completely empty, and looks almost abandoned. Faith shivers again, less from the cold and more from the dim, empty room. This place gives her the creeps. It says a lot about Sunnydale that the hospital is big enough to have abandoned rooms.

Faith sees another door, at the back of the room. This one has a sign that reads _Locker Room_.

_Bingo_.

Faith has to turn the lights on in the locker room, which makes her nervous about her chances of finding clothes. She bashes open a few lockers, each empty save for dust and cobwebs, until she finds a long-abandoned pair of jeans. She yanks them on under her hospital gown, and silently thanks God or whoever else happens to be looking out for her that she still has her own underwear. The jeans are men’s—too long, baggy, and they generally make Faith look homeless, but she cuffs them, sticks her knife in the waistband, and hopes they stay up. In the same locker, she finds a pair of men’s sneakers: also much too big, but she puts them on anyway. Three lockers down, she finds a hoodie.

Faith rips off her hospital gown, and she’s about to throw the hoodie on when she catches her reflection in the mirror set up at the end of the row of lockers. She approaches the mirror slowly, watching herself.

Her weight loss is painfully visible. Her cheeks are hollow, her eyes recessed, and it emphasizes the sharpness of her cheekbones in a way that’s less attractive and more concerning. Her ribs stand out in sharp relief. Faith can count them in the mirror from across the room. Her arms have been stripped to thin cords of muscle wrapped around bone, not quite filling out her skin, and while Faith is already wearing jeans, she can only imagine her legs are the same.

What catches her eye, though, is not her emaciated face, nor her wasted body. No, it’s the pink, puckered scar on her stomach.

The mark is much bigger than any of Faith’s other numerous scars. It seems almost alien, like some foreign object planted under the skin of her side. The area around it is inflamed, an angry shade of pink, and severely swollen. The mark itself is raised an inch or so from the swelling around it, protruding from her side, an angry reminder of that night on the rooftop, the coldness in Buffy’s eyes, the way she’d looked like an animal on the hunt.

(Faith has the feeling that, if not for her Slayer healing, trying to stand up would’ve ended in her bleeding out on her hospital room floor.)

“ _Damn_ , B,” Faith whispers. She stops in front of the mirror, stolen hoodie in one hand, hesitantly reaching up with her other. She traces the edges of the scar, glancing between her own body and her reflection. “Would you look at _that_?”

Faith spends a moment more on the scar, transfixed by the damage done to her body and the memory of how it felt when Buffy buried the knife in her stomach. It had been satisfying, somehow. Poetic. It had felt like an ending, the right ending. It had been, on some level, a relief.

“But here I am, huh?” Faith says to her reflection. “Still here.”

She doesn’t have the time to waste talking to herself. Faith shrugs the hoodie on, covering the scar, and heads back out into the break room. She isn’t sure why this wing of the hospital seems so abandoned, but she’s not going to bet on it staying that way forever. She needs a way out: out of the hospital, out of Sunnydale, out of California if she can swing it.

The hall is still empty when Faith steps back out into it, and when she glances back the way she came, the two cops are still passed out on the floor. Stunning the one man’s unconscious body had been a bit brutal, but it seems to have paid off.

Faith spots a glowing exit sign down the hall, past the break room, and she makes a beeline for it, too-big shoes dragging clumsily over the ground. She’s tempted to take them off and just go barefoot, but she’s had broken glass in her feet before, and she doesn’t particularly want to risk repeating the experience.

The exit leads to the employee parking lot. There are cars everywhere, but not many people. Faith glances up at the sky, searching for the sun, and finds it mostly hidden behind puffy white clouds.

_So much for the sunny in Sunnydale_. Faith makes her way into the parking lot, keeping her head down, moving quickly. She spotted a few nurses headed for the employee entrance as she left the building, and she’s hardly inconspicuous, with her greasy hair and borrowed clothing.

Faith finds an old Jeep several rows back in the parking lot. It’s a dull brown, probably over a decade old but nicely refurbished, and completely unremarkable.

It’s also unlocked.

“You’d think people in this town would learn,” Faith mutters to herself as she climbs into the driver’s seat. “You got vampires and demons and conveniently annual apocalypses. At least lock your damn car.”

It only takes Faith a few minutes to hotwire the Jeep. Old habits die hard, she supposes. She drives out of the parking lot and onto the main road, her heart suddenly pounding in her chest. Her current route on the western route out of town, towards L.A., will take her right past the high school—or, if Buffy is to be believed, right past the desolate crater where the high school used to be. Right past whatever remains of the Mayor, in whatever demonic form he achieved before Buffy and her friends murdered him.

Faith turns on the radio and makes a left turn. The compass on the dash—whoever owned this car had some seriously vintage tastes—swings, and Faith drives east instead. She’s done with California—with the sun, and the hellmouths, and the confusing blonde girls with knives and friends who kill people Faith cares about.

Whatever’s on the radio is catchy, fast guitar and rough vocals. Faith turns it up, mindlessly tapping her fingers to the beat on the steering wheel.

(Back at the hospital, the cops are definitely awake by now. They’ll have called for backup and begun to search the hospital. They probably found the busted in lockers, maybe even the missing belongings. They won’t expect her to be in a car; Faith has an advantage there. Still, she’ll switch vehicles in the next big city she reaches, somewhere a car theft won’t be all over the local news. She’ll head south once she’s far enough from California, she figures. She doesn’t speak Spanish, but she could use a tan, and Mexico’s probably nice in the…whatever season it is.)

Faith pulls onto the highway and floors the gas. One of her hands stays on the steering wheel, keeping the Jeep steady, and the other drifts, unconsciously rubbing at the scar on her stomach through her hoodie. It feels… _wrong_ , somehow. The whole escape does.

From the minute she arrived in Sunnydale, she had never imagined walking away from Buffy. Fighting her, killing her, but never leaving her.

 

* * *

 

Faith lifts open the dumpster lid with a shaking hand. It’s been three days since her escape from Sunnydale, and god knows how long since her last proper meal. She’d eaten back in Arizona, bummed a basket of fries off some guy at a bar in Phoenix, but it hadn’t even put a dent in the demands of her Slayer metabolism. She hasn’t been this hungry in years.

(At least it isn’t cold. Vaguely, Faith remembers snow, wind, the Boston winter in nothing but a cotton hoodie and ripped jeans and shoes with worn out soles. That had been the last time she had dug through a dumpster for something to eat. It’s warm in New Mexico, at least, and Faith has some clothes and a backpack that she stole in Phoenix, along with a different car. She may be hungry, but she’s warm.)

“It’s behind a fucking bakery,” Faith whispers as she stares into the dumpster. Everything in it is shadowed from the dim light of the streetlights at the end of the alley. There’s a thick fog covering the town, and even with Slayer eyesight—equipped to spot attacking vampires in even the darkest of nights—the muffled light of the street lamps isn’t strong enough for Faith to tell what’s inside. The only thing she has to go off is her sense of smell, which, unfortunately, is also strengthened by her Slayer powers. “There’s gotta be something still wrapped in there.” Faith takes a deep breath to steel herself and immediately regrets the action. “God fucking _damn it_ ,” she whispers, and sticks her hand in the dumpster.

A door opens about ten feet down the alley, swinging back and hitting the wall of the building it belongs to. The metallic _bang_ echoes down the alley, and Faith leaps back, hand already reaching for the knife attached to her belt by a new sheath (also stolen in Phoenix). The person who had opened the door steps down into the alley with a trash bag in one hand, turning in Faith’s direction.

He’s older. Faith would put him in his late forties, with crow’s feet spreading at his eyes and heavy wrinkles on his forehead. He’s dressed simply and casually beneath the white apron tied around his waist. He looks directly at Faith, eyes widening slightly at her presence in the alley.

“Hello,” he says. His voice is calm, deep, marked by a vague tinge of surprise. “What are you doing here?”

“None of your business,” Faith snaps, fingers curling around the handle of the knife. The man looks pointedly between Faith’s disheveled appearance and backpack and the open dumpster beside her.

“Maybe not,” he says. “But it looks to me like you need something to eat.”

“So what?” Faith says, waving the hand not resting on her knife at the dumpster. “It’s trash. I ain’t hurting anyone.”

“No, you’re not,” the man agrees. “But if you’re looking for food, there’s plenty inside.” Faith hesitates. She had glanced at the closed storefront of the bakery before heading into the alley. It had been far from full, given that it’s nearly nine o’clock at night, but there had been a few sandwiches and pastries still in the window, and they had looked so good that she had nearly broken in right there.

“Thought you guys were closed,” Faith says.

“We are,” the man says. “But I own this place, and I prefer not to throw away food, if I can help it. Would you like to come inside?” Faith runs her thumb back and forth over the handle of the knife.

“What do you want for it?” she asks. “I can’t pay you.”

“I don’t want anything,” the man says. Faith snorts.

“Bullshit,” she says, beginning to turn away. “Everyone wants something. Try the charity schtick on someone else, old man.”

“Wait,” the man says, but Faith is already walking down the alley. “Wait!” he says again, louder this time. It’s not commanding, Faith isn’t sure this guy could manage to be commanding, but something in his tone makes her hesitate and look back over her shoulder at him. She hears his footsteps coming closer to her, but he stops a few feet away, giving her space. “If you don’t believe I want to help you,” he says. “Believe that I want to help the Slayer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk what the update schedule for this fic will be; hopefully often. this thing is my baby, so leave a comment and kudos if you enjoyed; it'd mean the world. i'm on tumblr @daisys-quake and on twitter @thoughtsintoink. til next time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> never expect updates this fast again.
> 
> thanks to everyone who left comments on the last chapter; y'all are the best! i hope you guys like this one, too. i'm especially proud of the ending ;)
> 
> huge shoutout to [rippergiles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rippergiles) for beta reading this chapter!

“How do you know that word?” Faith says, the words hissing through her clenched teeth. The man simply stares at her, unflinching. Faith presses the edge of her knife a little further, a little harder against his throat. She leans in, getting in his face, and tightens her grip on his shirt. “How…” she repeats, her voice dangerously low. “…do you know that word? What are you?”

“No threat to you,” the man says. “I can assure you of that.” Faith snorts.

“I fucking know _that_ ,” she says. “If you were, you’d be dead already. Now tell me. _What. Are. You_?”

“I suppose I’m a witch of sorts,” the man says, altogether much calmer than Faith wants him. “I have some rudimentary knowledge of magic and a vested interest in the world not ending. Roswell has a reputation for a reason, you know. We attract some unpleasant things. We haven’t had a Slayer in a long time, and someone needs to be here fighting back.” Faith lets go of his shirt and steps back, but keeps the knife high, aimed at him. The answer isn’t really _enough_ , but if it’s true, the guy’s human. Faith doesn’t trust herself to hold a knife to a human’s throat. The man steps away from the wall, picking up the trash bag he had dropped when she attacked him. He tosses it into the dumpster, still perfectly calm, seemingly undisturbed.

“You’re not a Watcher, though,” Faith says. It’s a statement, not a question, but she still waits for an answer.

“Far from it,” the man says, a hint of anger in his tone. “The Watchers’ Council is a thoroughly corrupt institution, and they do far more damage to their self-proclaimed _cause_ than the vampires could ever hope to.” Faith half-laughs and lowers the knife, though she keeps it out of its sheath and stays light on her feet, ready to strike if the man so much as looks at her wrong.

“You got that right,” she agrees. “So, you’ve met Slayers before?”

“Not personally,” the man says. “And this conversation would be much more pleasant indoors.” Faith hesitates. The man sees it and says, “I just made a pot of coffee, if you’re interested.” That does it for Faith. She nods, slipping the knife back into its sheath. The man smiles and turns, walking back through the alley door into the bakery, and Faith follows, one hand resting on the handle of her knife.

The bakery is small and softly lit, with a few tables and chairs set up along one wall. The entire other wall is taken up by the counter and a display case that was likely full of baked goods that morning, though it’s now occupied by only a few pastries and sandwiches. The window case is just as sparse.

“Popular place?” Faith asks, turning in a slow circle and taking in the room. There’s a few generic paintings and photographs up. None of it catches her eye.

“I get by,” the man says as he steps behind the counter. Faith can see him more clearly now in the lights of the bakery. He has long, black hair, and his skin is tan and weathered. “What would you like to eat?” Faith grabs a chair and pulls it up to one of the tables. She sets her backpack down beside her and sits.

“Those sandwiches looked good,” she says. The man ducks down, grabbing not one but all three of the remaining sandwiches out of the display case. He places them in a small plastic basket and sets it on top of the counter.

“How do you take your coffee?” he asks, walking over to a coffee pot sitting on a table behind the counter.

“Black’s fine,” Faith says. The man nods, pours a cup, and carries both the coffee and the sandwiches over to the table Faith has claimed. He sets them down in front of her. “Eat,” he says, and Faith happily obeys.

“So who are you, exactly?” Faith asks between bites. The man shrugs.

“Not anyone of note,” he says. “My name is Daniel Roberts. I own this bakery. I know a few spells, and when anything particularly nasty comes into town, I encourage it to move on quickly.”

“But you don’t fight vamps,” Faith says, taking a long sip of coffee, savoring the heat and flavor of it. “Like, the everyday shit.”

“No,” Roberts says. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to do much, and I’d probably get myself killed. I just cast a few spells when an older vampire or demon comes to town, give them the urge to keep moving. Nothing on the front lines. None of it can even be traced to me, really.” Faith finishes her first sandwich and moves to a second.

“But big guns come through here often enough that you have to chase them off,” she says. Roberts nods. “Why’s that? You said Roswell had a reputation, and I’m guessing you weren’t talking about the aliens.” Roberts laughs at that. It’s a nice sound, Faith thinks, not a single mocking or malicious note in it.

“No, no aliens.” He grins, entertained. “We did have quite the nasty apocalypse averted by our local Slayer back in the fifties, but the whole alien conspiracy—totally unrelated. My father knew our Slayer back then. Apparently, she was a remarkable young woman. Too young, though. Called when she was thirteen, died a few months later saving the world. He told me about her when I was a kid. She left quite the impact on him, considering he barely knew her at all.”

“So that’s how you know about the Slayer,” Faith says. “But how’d you know I was one, back in the alley?”

“I can see auras,” Roberts explains. “Yours is—powerful. More powerful than anyone else I’ve ever met.”

“Yeah? Anything else you see in my aura?” Faith is thinking of the blood on her hands, the Mayor, the evil she’s eaten dinner with, loved like a father. She’s thinking of Buffy’s knife in her stomach and the vindication in her eyes. Roberts just shrugs.

“Fear, mostly,” he says. “And love.”

“Love?” Faith frowns. “Love for what?”

“You tell me,” Roberts says. “It was there. That’s all I know.” Faith swallows the last of her coffee and stands up.

“You’re seeing things, old man,” she tells him. “Thanks for the food, but I’m out of here.” She picks her backpack up off the floor and turns and heads for the door—the front door this time.

“Wait,” Roberts says from behind her. Faith pauses and looks back at him. She’s not sure why she bothers; she doesn’t owe him anything. But the coffee was hot, and the sandwiches were good, so she may as well humor him a moment longer. “Where are you going?”

“Don’t know.” Faith glances out the window. The fog has settled firmly over the streets, and she has the feeling that the comforting southwestern warmth will be long gone when she goes back outside. She shivers preemptively. She needs to sleep tonight; it’s been three days, and while being the Slayer means needing a lot less sleep than the general populace, she’s dead tired. She just has to find somewhere with a bed; maybe someone, if that’s what it takes.

“I thought that might be the case,” Roberts says. “You can stay here, if you’d like.” Faith frowns at him.

“What, like, stay in Roswell? Why?” Roberts shrugs.

“The boy who worked for me just quit. I could use some help around the shop.”

“You’re…what,” Faith says, half-laughing. “Offering me a _job_?”

“Do you have something better to do?”

“I…” Faith shakes her head, staring at Roberts. There’s a million protests she could make, a million excuses. Hell, she doesn’t _need_ an excuse, she’s the goddamn _Slayer_. She can just leave. Right now. Instead, she says, “I don’t have a place to stay.” It’s just about the weakest protest she could possibly come up with, and Roberts doesn’t hesitate in answering.

“I have a couch,” he says. “And rent is surprisingly cheap in this town, if you choose to stay awhile.” Faith looks back at the door. The fog is heavy, now; Faith can barely see faint patches of yellow light where the streetlamps are. She turns away, back to Roberts.

“Okay,” she says. He begins to smile. “I’m not—saying I’ll…stick around,” she says. “But, for tonight, and maybe a few days…okay.”

“Okay,” Roberts says. He stands. “I have an apartment above the bakery. Follow me.” Faith follows him behind the counter, into a back room, and through a door to a well-lit stairwell.

“Hey, Roberts?” she says, hesitating at the foot of the stairs. He looks over at her. “Why are you doing this? Helping me?” She shifts in place, uncomfortable. “I mean, there’s the Slayer thing and all, but…you don’t even know my name.” Roberts looks up the stairs.

“You asked if there was anything I noticed about your aura,” he says. “There was.” He looks back at her. “It’s good,” he says. “It’s dark as night, darker than any I’ve ever seen before, but good. Warm and full of love and good.” Faith looks down at the aging carpet on the floor.

_Good_.

It’s not a word she would use for herself. Not ever, but especially not these days. Still, she rolls it around in her head, just to see how it feels.

(Mostly, it just reminds her of blonde hair and peppy quips and blood, pouring out of her stomach.)

“Faith,” she says as Roberts ascends the stairs. He turns, looking back down at her curiously. “My name is Faith.”

“Faith,” Roberts repeats. “It’s good to meet you.”

“Yeah,” Faith says, beginning to follow him up the stairs. “Good to meet you, too.”

 

* * *

 

“Escaped?” Buffy asks, her voice getting higher. “What do you mean, escaped? Escaped to _where_?”

“We don’t know,” Giles says, rubbing at his temples in obvious stress. “I got the call from the hospital this afternoon. Faith is no longer in her bed, or anywhere else in the hospital, and the policemen who were stationed at her door were found unconscious by the nurse.”

“Why are we still talking?” Xander says. He’s sitting on a chair in the corner of Giles’ living room, anxiously tapping a foot. “We should track her down before she decides she needs her murder fix!”

“I don’t disagree, Xander,” Giles says. “But I’m afraid we’ll have little luck in that department. A car disappeared from the hospital parking lot this afternoon, and it was found a few hours ago in Phoenix.”

“Phoenix?” Willow repeats. “As in _Arizona_ , Phoenix? Or, I mean, Phoenix, Arizona?”

“How come we didn’t hear about this _before_ she started crossing state lines?” Xander asks. “Why didn’t they have more cops on her?”

“Because two armed police officers is typically more than enough to guard a seventeen-year-old girl in a coma,” Giles says dryly.

“Well, clearly she isn’t as coma-y as we thought!” Xander says. Giles takes off his glasses, sighing heavily.

“The doctors didn’t believe she would ever wake up,” he says slowly, as if speaking to a third grader. “Let alone only a few weeks after being hurt in the first place. Slayer healing is hardly accounted for by modern medicine.”

“What are we going to do?” Willow says. “I could—“

“We could let her go,” Buffy says. The room goes silent.

“We could _what_?” Xander demands. “Are you crazy? No, seriously, have you been brain-sucked by a demon? Are you on something?” Buffy crosses her arms, glaring at him.

“What do _you_ suggest?” she snaps. “Hop in a car and drive around Arizona till we find her? And then what? What are we going to do if we find her? Huh?” Xander glares right back at her, but doesn’t answer. Buffy takes it as a small, yet highly satisfying, triumph.

“Um,” Willow says. “Please don’t yell at me, but I could do a locator spell.” Everyone turns to look at her. She visibly gulps and leans forward nervously. “With a few days and the right materials, I might be able to cast something. Just so we know where she is before we figure out our next move.”

“No,” Buffy says.

“Not to agree with Xander for the second time today,” Giles says, “but, Buffy, we can’t exactly let Faith go.”

“Why not?” Buffy says. She looks around the group and sees nothing but confusion from everyone, and anger from Xander in particular. Still, although it’s probably pointless, Buffy argues her case. “Look, she left town. She could’ve stuck around and caused problems, but she didn’t. She clearly doesn’t want any trouble, and she clearly doesn’t want to be found. She left without even hurting anyone.”

“Other than the cops,” Xander says, jumping back into the argument. “And, y’know, the owner of the car she _stole_.”

“What else was she supposed to _do_?” Buffy asks, shaking her head. “Just wake up and go to jail? Oh, it’s a medical miracle, you’re awake! Here’s your court date and a comfy jail cell while you wait!” No one responds, but Buffy can read it on all of their faces: that’s _exactly_ what they wanted her to do. “Seriously, you guys?” Buffy says. “Giles? Willow?” Neither of the aforementioned speak. Giles stares at the floor of his apartment, refusing to look her in the eyes. Willow gives Buffy an apologetic look. “ _God_ , I can’t believe you guys!” Buffy jumps to her feet. “She’s probably scared, and alone, and felt like her only option was to run away, as fast as she could. And from where I’m standing? It looks like she was right! None of you even _want_ to help her, do you?”

“What’s there to help?” Xander says. “Buffy, she’s a _murderer_. She worked for the Mayor. She tried to kill all of us!” Buffy doesn’t have a response to that. She storms over to the door in disgust.

“If you all want to track her down, go ahead,” Buffy says, her hand on the doorknob. “But you’ll be doing it without my help, and I don’t think any of you want to take on a Slayer.” With that, she walks out.

It’s late afternoon, and the sun is slowly drifting down towards the horizon. The peacefulness of the day infuriates Buffy. It should be raining, she thinks, or cloudy, or _anything_ to reflect how Buffy’s feeling inside. Faith is gone, off to who knows where, on her own with nothing but the knife Buffy had almost killed her with to defend herself. She could be thinking anything, doing anything; as much as Buffy doesn’t want to think about it, Faith could be hurting anyone. Buffy can’t stop her, can’t help her, can’t save her. She had wanted a lot of things from Faith over the past few months—an apology, an explanation, a few pints of blood—but she had never wanted her to _leave_.

( _What_ did _you want when she woke up?_ a voice in her head asks her, but Buffy doesn’t have an answer.)

What she had told her friends had been true, though. They hadn’t given Faith a choice. What was she supposed to do but run away? She couldn’t count on the Scoobies. She couldn’t count on—

“Buffy!” Willow’s voice calls out from behind her. Buffy turns. Willow hurries up to her, breathing a bit heavily. “I caught you,” Willow says, sounding oddly proud of herself.

“What is it, Wil?” Buffy asks. It’s a little snappish, but she thinks it’s justified, all things considered. She starts walking again, and Willow falls into step beside her.

“What was that?” Willow asks. “Back there. Why were you all—defensive?” Buffy almost snaps at Willow, almost asks _why weren’t you?_ , but instead, she takes a breath and considers the question.

“I, um, I visited Faith today,” she begins.

“You who-what-when?” Willow asks. “ _Why_?”

“I’ve been…doing that,” Buffy says. “Occasionally. That’s not really the point.”

“Um, yeah, I think it is,” Willow says. “Why are you visiting Faith?”

“Well, clearly I’m not _anymore_ ,” Buffy says. Willow pouts, and Buffy winces. “Sorry,” she says. “I’m just—still a little mad.”

“Obviously,” Willow says. Buffy kicks a pebble along the sidewalk.

“I don’t really know…why I’ve been visiting,” she says after a moment. “I guess I just…I could’ve done better by her, Wil. We all could’ve.” Willow looks at her curiously. “Think about it. We left her in some cheap motel with an awful landlord. We didn’t train her or hang out with her or try to make her feel accepted at all. I don’t even know where she got her food.” Buffy kicks the pebble so hard it leaves a dent in the side of a parked car. “The Mayor gave her a fancy apartment and money and someone who cared about her. It’s no wonder she picked him over us.”

“No one’s saying Faith didn’t have it rough, Buffy,” Willow says. “But we cared about her too, and she still, y’know, killed people. That’s not on us.”

“I know that,” Buffy says, exasperated. “And I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive her for that, or for betraying us. But we actively let her suffer. Isn’t that supposed to be our whole schtick? Stopping suffering? Why didn’t we do that for Faith?” Willow starts kicking a different pebble along the street.

“I guess I never thought she needed help,” she says after a minute. She looks upset, almost guilty, and Buffy relents.

“Neither did I,” she admits. “But if we had tried harder to get to know her, maybe we would’ve known before it was too late.” Willow stops and turns to Buffy.

“But what can we do about it now?” she asks. “We can’t just let her _go_.”

“Yeah, we can,” Buffy says firmly. “We can. If Faith was as beyond redemption as we’ve all been telling ourselves she is, she would’ve left a trail of bodies on her way out of town. But she didn’t. She did what she had to do to get out and nothing else. She didn’t kill those cops. She left the car somewhere it could be found and returned to whoever she stole it from. She’s _not_ evil, Willow. We can let her go.” Willow still looks hesitant, and Buffy reaches out, setting a hand on her best friend’s shoulder. “This is all we can give her now,” Buffy says. “A second chance.” Slowly, Willow nods.

“Okay,” she says. “Okay. You got me. But good luck convincing Xander.” Buffy groans.

“That’s a tomorrow problem,” she says. “Can that _please_ be a tomorrow problem?” Willow laughs.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Buffy,” she says as they approach the turn she has to take to get home. “I, um, I hope it works out with Faith. Like, I hope she doesn’t kill anyone and we don’t have to track her down. Mostly because Faith is really scary and I don’t want to fight her, and also because I don’t want people to die, but also for her sake. Maybe she’ll do better this time.” Buffy hugs her.

“Thanks, Wil,” she says as she steps back. “I’ll see you.” Willow nods, smiles, and walks away. Buffy watches her for a moment, then turns back to her own walk.

What she’d said to Willow had been true, every word of it, but she’d left a piece out. Buffy is pretty sure she knows when Faith woke up: when her heart rate spiked during Buffy’s earlier visit. If she’s right, Faith caught the whole tail end of Buffy’s monologue, including Buffy leaving her the knife and apologizing for the stabbing—and promising to do better next time. Buffy had assumed the heart rate and the head moving had been a nightmare or a Slayer dream, but now, she’s pretty sure her presence is what woke Faith up. If that’s true, Faith had chosen not to confront Buffy, not to fight. Faith could’ve pulled that knife out in a second and ripped Buffy to shreds, but she had waited for Buffy to leave before she fled. She had listened to Buffy’s speech, she had taken the knife, and she had fled.

(All that hatred Buffy had seen in Faith’s eyes up on that rooftop maybe wasn’t quite as thorough as Buffy had thought.)

_A knife, an apology, and a second chance._ It’s a poor substitute for the family Buffy should’ve given her, but it’s a start.

 

* * *

 

Willow rolls over, sighing heavily as she rearranges her blankets. It’s not that she isn’t tired; it’s that she can’t stop thinking about Faith, and what Buffy had said earlier.

_It’s all we can give her, now. A second chance_. Buffy had looked so _sure_ when she had said it, and the more Willow thinks about it, the more sense it makes. They really _hadn’t_ tried to help Faith, and while the murdering and torturing all seems pretty unforgivable to Willow, Faith isn’t here, and she doesn’t seem to be murdering and torturing anyone anymore. Willow may never be able to personally give Faith another chance, but it seems fair, somehow, that she should have another shot with the world.

Willow rolls out of bed and walks over to her computer. It’s on, just sleeping as always. She jiggles the mouse and types in her password. She’s done a lot of… _interesting_ computer work for Buffy over the past few years, ranging from ethically questionable to extremely illegal, but this might just take the cake.

“And Buffy didn’t even _ask_ ,” Willow murmurs to herself as she hacks into the police department’s fileserver. “Look at me. I really am the best friend ever.” With a few clicks, she deletes any evidence that the Sunnydale P.D. ever knew that a girl named Faith Lehane existed. “What else? Ooh! Physical evidence.” Willow puts her computer back to sleep and slides away from her desk. She reaches under her bed, pulling out one of the spell books she had borrowed from the library before the library ceased to exist. “Let’s see…vacuum spells…vampire deterrents…vanishing! Alright!” Willow flips to the right page in the book and gives the ingredients and instructions a cursory glance. It looks simple enough; a simple blend of herbs, some chanting, an invocation of a deity, and poof!

“No more physical evidence,” Willow says, grinning triumphantly. It’s not really about Faith, now; she has the opportunity to try a new spell, and an excuse for doing so. It’s a good deed and a reward all wrapped into one.

Willow goes to the empty drawer in her dresser, pops out the false bottom, and starts gathering ingredients.

 

* * *

 

Buffy stares out across the front yard, her chin balanced on her palms, her elbows on the kitchen counter. It’s mid-July now, a month and a half since graduation, and Buffy has never been so _bored_. She’s fought nothing but run-of-the-mill vamps for months, and she should probably be grateful for that, but she’s beginning to get a reputation, even amongst the freshly turned, and she barely even gets to fight them these days. Granted, hitting them with a crossbow from a hundred yards as they run away in terror can be fun, but there’s no variety, no challenge anymore.

It’s been three weeks since Faith ran away. The last trace of her vanished in Phoenix, Arizona. Buffy and Willow had presented a united front, insisting that they wouldn’t track Faith down until they had a reason to, and eventually, Giles had relented. Xander is still angry, still insistent that they should be _doing something_ , and it’s driving a wedge into all of their friendships with him, but Buffy will not be moved. As far as they know, Faith hasn’t done a single damn _thing_ wrong since she woke up from her coma, and Buffy refuses to punish her for trying to save herself.

Still, Buffy spends a lot of time thinking about Faith these days. Dreaming about those scant few happy months they had, between Faith’s arrival and that awful night in the alleyway, where Buffy, for the first time in three years, hadn’t felt alone. Buffy hasn’t had a Slayer dream since Faith left, but nearly every time she sleeps, she relives a different night of patrolling, fighting vampires, having _fun_ , all of the memories completely unremarkable but for Faith’s presence.

(It freaks Buffy out, a little bit, that she misses the girl she tried to kill so goddamn much.)

The phone rings, and Buffy jerks out of her daze, nearly kneeing a hole in the cabinet under the countertop. She shakes her head, laughing a bit at herself.

_So much for Slayer instincts. Could’ve been a vamp right behind me and I wouldn’t have noticed_. She walks over and picks up the phone.

“Hello?” Buffy says into the handset. All that answers her is silence. Dead silence, as if the person on the other end of the line is holding their breath. “Hello?” she says again, and is greeted by yet more silence. She’s ready to shrug and hang up when she hears an exhale on the other end, a rush of static with just a hint of human inflection.

Suddenly, the Slayer connection that Buffy’s felt since the moment she met Faith, the connection that’s been nearly dormant for weeks, roars to life with a vengeance. There’s a swarm of angry bees in the back of her mind, and she has to lean against the wall just to stay upright.

Still, Buffy doesn’t dare to hope. She keeps silent until whoever’s on the other end of the phone speaks up.

“ _Hey, B,_ ” says a familiar voice, raspy tones, Boston accent, and all. Buffy slides down onto the floor and lets her head tip back against the wall behind her, ignoring the way the phone cord stretches to accommodate her.

“Faith,” she breathes. The voice laughs, just a bit, and the sound has none of the malice and anger that Buffy remembers. It’s hopeful, scared, mournful, even a bit happy, but it doesn’t scare Buffy at all.

“ _Yeah_ ,” Faith says quietly. “ _Me_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! i'm on tumblr @daisys-quake and on twitter @thoughtsintoink; please come follow and talk to me, it makes my day :) leave a comment and kudos if you enjoyed!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short one this time, but for the sake of preserving my outline, it's gonna have to stay that way. big shoutout to [rippergiles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rippergiles) for beta reading!

Faith lifts up her frosting bag and eyes the cookie she’s working on critically, tilting her head at it and frowning.

“It’s perfectly good, Faith,” Roberts says as he steps past her, setting another tray down beside her.

“It’s lopsided.”

“And I promise you it will still sell.” Roberts grabs the cookie out of her workspace and sets it on the tray to her right, which is full of completed cookies. “And whichever tourist buys it will enjoy their ridiculous little-green-man-from-Mars cookie just as much, lopsided eyes and all.”

“Whatever, old man,” Faith mumbles. “Gimme another.” Roberts passes her another cookie, and Faith starts again, glaring at the new, unspoiled cookie with just as much distaste as she had at the previous misshapen one.

It’s been like this for the past…nearly three weeks now, although it’s felt somehow both much longer and like no time at all to Faith. She helps Roberts out around the bakery and sleeps on his couch, and he pays her, under the table, more than she probably earns or deserves, and definitely more than he can afford. It’s a pretty good system, in Faith’s opinion. She has food, a job, and a place to sleep. She’s getting used to the insanely early hours, and he doesn’t ask her questions about her life. She’s not even sure he knows her last name.

The more Faith thinks about it, the more she’s confused as to what, exactly, Roberts is getting out of the deal. He has a freeloading, grumpy Slayer to deal with who doesn’t pay rent and can’t even decorate a goddamn cookie properly. On the bright side, though, Faith will have enough money by the end of the next week to rent her own place. She supposes she likes Roberts, but she’s really starting to need her space, and though he hasn’t said a word, Faith has the feeling he does, too.

“You know, I used to draw a lot as a kid,” Faith says as she places the cookie on the completed tray and moves on to the next. She’s barely even conscious of herself speaking, absorbed in her work. Roberts makes a noncommittal noise of acknowledgement, neither asking Faith for more details or telling her to get back to work. Faith appreciates that about Roberts: he doesn’t push her. He keeps his mouth shut, for the most part. Faith likes that in people.

And yet, here she is, babbling like a moron while she works.

“This is sorta like that. I was good at it, I guess,” Faith continues, putting the finishing touches on her green Martian cookie and moving on to a space shuttle design. “The other little brats thought so. It was just about the only thing they liked about me.” Faith smiles down at the cookie. “See, this one isn’t lopsided. I think I just suck at Martians.” Roberts steps across the kitchen and glances over Faith’s shoulder at the cookie.

“It is good.” Roberts snatches the cookie out of her workspace and takes a bite.

“ _Hey_!” Faith glares at him, crossing her arms. He just smiles at her, eating the rest of the cookie and getting back to work. “That one was _good_ , asshole,” Faith grumbles, turning back to the tray.

“It was,” Roberts agrees, smiling as he slips on an oven mitt and reaches into the oven.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Faith says pointedly as she gets back to work. “After I went on the run, I did some graffiti art, just for the hell of it. That was always cool. I would doodle on napkins and shit, too, but nothing that took me time or anything. Just stupid shit, little cartoon vamps and demons.” Faith allows her motions to get a bit automatic. She’s learning to work on autopilot fairly quickly, although maybe not _that_ quickly considering the sheer amount of work she does every day.

“Back in California, I started drawing a lot again,” Faith says, aware on some level that this is the first time she’s mentioned where she was before Roswell to Roberts. “I had time. Buffy and everyone was in school all day, and I couldn’t exactly kill anything in broad daylight unless I went in the sewers, which, no thanks. So I drew a lot.” Faith pauses in her frosting, thinking back to the winter before. “I, um, I actually drew something for Buffy for Christmas,” she admits quietly. “Just some stupid shit, a sketch of me and her fighting some vamps. Like we were heroes or something. It was dumb, and I knew it. Ended up not givin’ it to her.” Faith goes back to frosting, a bit more intently than before.

“It sounds like this Buffy girl means something to you,” Roberts says after a moment. “Why are you here, instead of with her?”

Suddenly, it hits Faith that she’s been rambling on about her life, her past, _Buffy_. For a moment, every survival instinct she’s ever had, every voice in her head that says _don’t let anyone see you_ starts screaming. For a horribly longer moment, Faith almost obeys. She almost storms out right then there, almost rips her apron off and takes off out the back door without her backpack or her clothes or her money or anything. Instead, she takes a deep, shuddering breath and forces herself to _stay_.

“You’re a smart guy, old man,” Faith says, staring down at her work. “You already know I’m running from something.” Roberts says nothing, but Faith can feel his eyes on her. “Buffy’s…a part of that something, I guess.”

“I see,” Roberts says. The room is silent for long enough that Faith’s hands start to shake. “I would never judge you, Faith, you know that. But if I may give you a bit of advice? If you mean a fraction as much to Buffy as she means to you, she would want you to stop running.” Faith laughs.

“I mean plenty to Buffy,” she says. “None of it good.”

“Even so,” Roberts says. “Think about it. That’s all I ask.” An oven timer begins to beep, and the moment is broken. Faith turns back to her work, blinking a bit faster than before.

(That night, after closing and cleaning up, Faith stays downstairs when Roberts goes up to the apartment. She sits for almost an hour, staring at the shop phone, before she picks it up and dials the only number she’s ever properly memorized.)

* * *

 “Faith,” Buffy says into the phone, squeezing her free hand into a fist as tightly as she can. “Faith, is that you?” Faith laughs again, a little more confidently this time, and still, Buffy can’t hear any of the malice she remembers.

“ _Who else?_ ” Faith asks. Buffy takes a few deep breaths, trying to slow her racing heart.

“Are you okay?” Buffy says. Her whole body is trembling, she realizes. The Slayer connection is rapidly fading back into the background, but Buffy is still shaking; her knees still feel weak.

“ _I’m okay_ ,” Faith says. “ _I’m…I’m doing good, actually_.” Buffy closes her eyes.

“That’s good,” she says. “Listen, Faith, I—“

“ _No_ ,” Faith interrupts. “ _No, um, I wanna say something_.” She seems to be waiting for permission, but Buffy stays silent, and eventually, Faith starts talking again, the words pouring out of her. “ _B, I swear to God I’m not—I’m not gonna hurt anyone. And you got every right to not believe me, you do, but I’m doing better, I’m_ getting _better, and I’m gonna keep getting better. Alright? I’m gonna be good. I promise_.” Buffy listens, her eyes still closed. When Faith seems to be done talking, she speaks again.

“I want to believe you.” Buffy realizes as she says it that it’s true. She wants to _believe_ her. But maybe that’s just because Faith is validating the decision that Buffy already made, telling her that she did the right thing by letting Faith go. “I do, I just…how can you expect me to trust that?” Faith is silent for a long moment.

“ _I don’t_ ,” she says eventually. “ _I don’t_ expect _you to trust me. But you’re going to have to_.” Buffy’s eyes fly open.

“Was that a threat?”

“ _No_!” Faith says quickly. “ _No, that’s not—I just meant, you let me_ go _, B. And you’re not gonna find me again. I’m sorry, but it’s true. I’m good at running_.” Buffy half-laughs, half-scoffs.

“I know,” she says. “When the cops were still after you, they lost you in Phoenix.”

“ _Are they not_ still _after me_?” Faith asks.

“Oh,” Buffy says. “Um, no, actually. Willow sorta erased anything that could be traced back to you, so as far as the Sunnydale PD is concerned, you were never here.”

“ _Huh_ ,” Faith says. “ _Neat trick. Thank her for me_.”

“I will.” There’s a quiet moment, and Buffy tries to catch the sound of Faith breathing on the other end of the line. Vaguely, she wonders where Faith is, if she’s paying for a long-distance call from another shitty motel room in another small town, all alone against the world again. “Hey, Faith?”

“ _Yeah, B?_ ”

“Are you—have you got…anyone? Where you are now?” Faith is silent for a moment.

“ _Yeah_ ,” she says eventually. “ _Yeah, I think I do, actually. Have someone_.”

“Good. I’m glad.”

“ _Are you_?”

“How can you ask that, Faith?” Buffy shakes her head even though Faith can’t see it. “I wanted you to be happy. I’m not the one that—“ She cuts herself off, but it’s too late.

“ _That murdered people and worked for a giant snake demon?_ ”

“Well, yeah, kinda.”

“ _Then why didn’t you come after me_?” Faith says. “ _Why aren’t you yellin’ at me right now, telling me to get back to Sunny D and face my righteous punishment? Why the_ hell _did Red pull her computer voodoo on my criminal record_?”

“Second chances,” Buffy says. Faith snorts derisively, and Buffy can picture that mocking smirk perfectly. It makes Buffy’s face burn—with anger or embarrassment, she can’t tell.

“ _Second chances_ ,” Faith repeats, that familiar harsh, angry note finally emerging in her voice.

“Yeah, Faith,” Buffy says, refusing to back down. “Second chances. And if you’re getting better, it sounds like I made the right choice. So why are you trying to make me feel bad about it?” Faith doesn’t answer that, and Buffy realizes after a moment that she’s not going to. She changes topics. “Are you ever coming back to Sunnydale? The cops aren’t after you anymore, so…”

“ _I’m willing to bet your friends are_ ,” Faith says. “ _Between Doucheface Harris and the Watchers’ Council, there’s still a whole lotta people there I’d rather not run into_.”

“I don’t think you have the right to say that about Xander,” Buffy snaps, the insult rankling her. Xander may suck right now, but he’s still her friend, and Faith is…not that. Whatever she is, she’s not Buffy’s friend.

“ _Maybe not,_ ” Faith says. “ _But he is still after me, isn’t he_?” Buffy doesn’t answer, which is an answer in and of itself. “ _Whatever_ ,” Faith mutters. “ _Look, d’you_ want _me to come back?_ ”

Buffy doesn’t answer that, either.

“ _Yeah, I figured._ ” Faith sighs into the phone, producing a cloud of static. “ _If you ever have an answer, come find me. I’ll let you catch up._ ”

“Hey, Faith,” Buffy says suddenly. “If you, um, if you really are getting better…I’m proud of you.” Faith is silent for a long moment, so long that Buffy almost says her name again, wondering if she hung up.

“ _Yeah_ ,” Faith finally says. “ _Thanks, Buffy_.”

Dial tone.

“Didn’t even say goodbye,” Buffy murmurs, pulling the phone away from her ear. “Asshole.”

Buffy stays on the floor for awhile. She sort of likes it down there. It’s comfy.

Eventually, though, she climbs to her feet, replacing the phone on the wall and pushing her hair out of her face. She’s not sure if she feels better, but for the first time in a long time, talking to Faith didn’t make her feel worse, so she’ll take it.

(Some part of Buffy is breathing easier now. Faith has someone. Faith is safe. Faith doesn’t sound angry anymore. Faith sounds…Buffy doesn’t want to call it happy and jinx it, but it’s certainly closer to happy than anything Buffy has heard from her before. And whatever bizarre part of Buffy that was so horribly worried about a girl that she should, by all rights, hate, is quiet now. Soothed by Faith’s easy, gentle laughter and her intense promises that she’s _better_.)

* * *

 “Faith.” Faith nearly jumps at the sudden voice, her hand sneaking under her shirt as she spins, seeking out the handle of the knife she always carries, even at work. As soon as she turns around, though, her hand falls away again.

“You nearly gave me a fucking heart attack,” Faith snaps as Roberts steps forward into the light of the back room. “What is it?”

“I have something to tell you.” Faith is already opening her mouth for a snarky comment when she notices the look on Roberts’ face. _Something’s wrong_.

“What?” she asks. Roberts looks away for a moment before he speaks.

“I’m not who you think I am.” He’s silent for a long moment after that, and Faith’s hand begins to creep back towards her knife. “There’s a…a gift that runs in my family,” Roberts elaborates, which doesn’t really put Faith any less on edge. “Every few generations, one of us has it. We see the future, make prophecies. Know things.”

“Sounds like a fun party trick,” Faith says. Roberts smiles.

“Hardly,” he says. “We tend to receive portents of impending doom, not lottery ticket numbers.”

“Still, it has potential,” Faith says. “Why tell me? And why tell me _now_ , instead of sooner?”

“I wouldn’t tell you at all if it wasn’t relevant,” Roberts says. “But unfortunately, it is. You see, Faith, I had a prophecy a few months ago. A prophecy concerning you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm on tumblr @daisys-quake and on twitter @thoughtsintoink. please come talk to me, i'm very alone. leave a comment and kudos if you enjoyed; it makes my day 73% better every time!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> big shoutout to [rippergiles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rippergiles) for beta reading!

Faith carefully folds the last shirt from her drawer, setting it in her borrowed duffel bag. She traces aimless shapes on the material as she glances around the small room that she’s called home for the past few months. Roberts had been right about the rent prices in Roswell, but Faith had opted for a tiny studio apartment all the same—partially so she could save money, but mostly because Faith finds something oddly comforting about small spaces these days. Maybe it’s because her few belongings are enough to make the space look and feel like a home, where they would be drowned out by the vast emptiness of a larger space, or maybe Faith has just grown to like not having too much.

There’s a knock from the door, and Faith turns. Roberts is standing in the doorway, one hand raised from knocking on the frame. He smiles at her.

“What’re you, waitin’ for an invitation?” Faith says. “Did you get yourself vamped?” Roberts shakes his head and steps into the apartment.

“Hardly,” he says. “Are you ready to go?” Faith glances around the once-again barren apartment, and realizes suddenly that she’s going to miss it. She’s going to miss the strange fog that filled Roswell on a semi-regular basis, and the obnoxious tourists and conspiracy theorists who constantly flowed in and out of town, and the work she’d been doing at the bakery, and Roberts’ comforting, quiet presence, and her tiny apartment with its unreliable hot water.

“I feel like I’m leaving home,” Faith admits, so quietly she’s surprised when Roberts hears her and nods. “I’ve never felt like that before.”

“Well, the convenient thing about leaving home,” Roberts says, stepping over to Faith and setting a hand on her shoulder, “is that it’s still there when you decide to come back.” Faith laughs bitterly and looks away.

“We both know I won’t be coming back,” she says. Roberts’ grip on her shoulder tightens slightly.

“We don’t know how much time you have,” he says. “The prophecy didn’t come with a timeline. We may have years yet.”

“Roberts.” Faith meets his gaze, and for the first time she can remember, he’s the first to look away. “You’re confident in your gift, right?”

“I am,” Roberts says. “I just wish…” He doesn’t complete the thought.

“I do, too,” Faith says. She places her hand over the one he has on her shoulder. “But no use sittin’ here wishing for things we can’t have. I got a planet to save from endless night. Whatever the hell that means.”

“Of course,” Roberts says. He takes his hand off her shoulder. Faith picks up her backpack and her duffel and glances around the room one more time. There’s no sign of her here anymore, no evidence that she ever lived in this room, ever lived in Roswell at all. Her work for Roberts had all been under the table, and she hadn’t exactly gone out of her way to make friends here.

(And now? Now she’s glad for that, because she doesn’t need another reason to stay.)

“You’re sure you have it memorized?” Roberts says as they walk out of the apartment to his car. Faith rolls her eyes.

“I’m sure,” she says. She tosses her duffel in the back and slides into the passenger seat.

“All the same,” Roberts says as he turns his key and the old engine coughs itself to life. “Recite it for me again.” Faith crosses her arms petulantly, but does what she’s told.

“By order of the First Son,” she begins. “The Forsaken Ones shall be free of their cages. The sky shall fall to endless night until the last Slayer rises against him. Only when—“ Faith clears her throat, her mouth suddenly dry.

“I know you know the last line,” Roberts says quietly. “You don’t have to repeat it.”

“There you go,” Faith says. “Couldn’t you have foretold something fun? Your third eye sucks, old man.” Roberts laughs.

“It does,” he agrees. “And it speaks in riddles, but it’s never been mistaken before.” Faith looks out the window at the passing streets.

“You should’ve started with the prophecy,” she says. “Back in the alley that night. This shoulda been the first thing you told me.”

“You wouldn’t have believed me if I had,” Roberts says. “You barely believed I was a witch. You certainly wouldn’t have believed I was a seer, especially if I led with a prophecy about you.”

“Maybe so,” Faith mutters. “But I wouldn’t have gotten my hopes up.” Roberts pulls into the bus depot parking lot, and Faith springs out of the car, grabbing her stuff. Roberts turns the engine off and climbs out as well.

“I’ll walk you to your station?” he offers. Faith shakes her head.

“You do that, I might not get on,” she says quietly. Roberts nods. They just stand there for a moment, staring at each other. “Fuck it,” Faith mumbles. She steps forward and wraps her arms around him. After a brief, stunned moment, Roberts hugs her back. “You say a word, I’ll kill you,” she says into his shoulder. Roberts laughs, that familiar, guileless, rumbling sound. It takes a bit of the tension out of Faith’s shoulders.

“You promise you’ll still be here if I…” Faith begins as she steps back.

“ _When_ you come back,” Roberts says firmly. “I will still have a place for you. I promise.” Faith nods.

“Alright,” she says. She has to clear her throat for the words to come out coherently. “Alright, now you need to get back in your car and leave.” Roberts obeys, climbing back into his car and turning the engine on. It makes a concerning whining sound that they both ignore. He rolls down his window and looks up at her, and Faith’s doing a pretty good job of hiding her emotions, but Roberts isn’t even trying. His eyes are watery.

“Faith,” he says quietly, barely audible over the engine. “Faith, I am so proud of you.” His voice is quiet, but Faith has never heard him speak with more conviction. “Whatever happens when you get back to Sunnydale, that is _never_ going to change. You hear me? That’s never going to change.”

“I hear you, old man,” Faith says. It’s all she can manage in response, but Roberts knows exactly what she means.

“Call me if you need anything,” he says as he begins to roll the window back up. “Anything at all.” With that, before either of them can change their minds, Roberts pulls out of his parking spot and drives away.

Faith checks her ticket and walks to her bus in a haze. She finds a seat towards the back, piling her stuff on the seat beside her and trying to give off her strongest “don’t come near me” vibes. It seems to work, because even as the bus fills up, no one bothers her.

Faith stares out the window as the bus pulls out of the station. It makes a few turns through the streets of Roswell, past more than a few tacky alien displays, and finally, a right onto the highway. West, towards California. Towards Buffy, and whatever she’s doing now. Faith imagines she’s in college—still in Sunnydale because she’s always been a sucker for the sacred duty schtick, but college, probably. Dorms, probably with Willow, and parties, and classes, and Faith is probably already last year’s problem, a distant memory in comparison to the present. Faith smiles, a little bitterly. Buffy’ll have to remember her soon, if she’s still into the world not ending.

_I’m the prophecy girl this time, B. Ready or not, here I come_.

* * *

“Never again,” Buffy mutters as she walks, kicking at the sidewalk beneath her feet. “Never again!” She pictures Parker’s stupid, smirking face, and kicks the pavement so hard it cracks beneath her boots. “Men are evil, and I am _done_ with them. Never again.”

“Sounds like a bad time, girlfriend,” says a female voice off to Buffy’s right. Buffy spins, the stake in her sleeve falling into her hand. A vampire steps out of the darkness and onto the path. “Wanna tell me about it?”

“God,” Buffy says, shaking her head. “I thought sororities faced a lot of unfair stereotypes, but campus vamps really are a whole other kind of stupid.” The vampire hisses and darts forward, reaching for Buffy. Buffy sidesteps it easily and brings her fist, stake and all, forward for the kill. At the last second, though, the vampire twists her body out of the way, and the stake just leaves a hole in the side of her vaguely expensive-looking, flowy top.

“ _Hey_ ,” the vampire complains. “This is one of a kind! It was a lot of work to steal!” Buffy just shakes her head, too annoyed to bother quipping, and throws a kick at the side of the vampire’s head. She dodges, catching Buffy’s leg and trying to throw her. Buffy goes with the motion, turning the throw into a graceful flip and landing with her boots on the ground. She circles to the right, trying to catch the vampire off guard, but the vampire takes a few steps back, widening the distance between them. “Slayer,” she says.

“And you’re just now noticing?” Buffy asks. “I really _have_ been slacking off.” The vampire takes a few more steps back, clearly preparing to make a run for it, when suddenly, she stiffens, her eyes going wide with shock and pain.

“Well, that’s just not fair,” she says, and explodes into dust. A wooden bolt clatters to the ground where she had been standing. Buffy looks down at it, recognizing it as being from a crossbow. She looks up, squinting into the darkness of the night to see who had fired it. The figure steps forward, halfway into the soft light of the streetlamps along the campus path. She’s expecting Xander, or Willow, or Giles, or Oz, or even Angel, back from L.A.

What she’s not expecting is for the golden light to fall across a familiar smirk, casting shadows from distinctive cheekbones and dark eyes. She’s not expecting the way the sight hits her in the stomach harder than any vampire ever could, knocking the breath out of her.

Faith Lehane steps out of the shadows, resting a crossbow against her shoulder and grinning, and the sight hits Buffy like a physical thing.

(Buffy had imagined this, during the coma, and right after Faith had run away: she had imagined Faith waking up, coming back, the two of them fighting, arguing, maybe even putting things back together. But as the months had stretched on, she’d stopped imagining it, started imagining Faith in whatever life she had chosen, out in the world: as a mercenary or a bounty hunter or something, or maybe a pool shark. Living the high life in shades of grey, in some giant city full of neon. Buffy had imagined Faith happy. She’d _hoped_ Faith was happy. She had stopped imagining her ever coming back.)

“Faith,” Buffy says, her grip tightening on her stake.

“The one and only,” Faith says, still grinning. She takes another step forward, all the way into the light of the streetlamp, and swings the crossbow down from her shoulder. Buffy jumps back a step, raising her stake defensively. “Whoa, hey,” Faith says, raising her free hand. “I’m not here to fight.”

“Prove it,” Buffy says, holding her stake as threateningly as she can manage with her hands shaking. “Give me the crossbow. Put it on the ground and kick it over here.”

“It’s not even _loaded_ , B,” Faith says, rolling her eyes. “What am I gonna do, smack you with it?”

“Give it to me,” Buffy says. Faith huffs, but drops the crossbow.

“Shit was expensive,” she grumbles as she kicks it over to Buffy. “You better give it back eventually.” Buffy grabs the crossbow in her free hand, keeping her stake up and her eyes on Faith.

“You paid for it?” Buffy asks, weighing the weapon in her hand. It’s incredibly lightweight, but she can’t tell much else about it without trying it herself.

“Yep,” Faith says, popping the _p_. “Told you on the phone. I’m a good girl now.” Buffy expects her to sneer the words, to say them with that familiar, mocking smirk, to follow them up with a thrown knife or a punch to the face. Faith rolls her eyes as she says them, and there’s not exactly a wealth of sincerity in her tone or her posture, but somehow, Buffy finds herself believing her.

She lowers her stake.

“Finally,” Faith grumbles. “Took you long enough.” Buffy almost apologizes, but changes her mind halfway through opening her mouth.

“How are you?” she says instead. Faith shrugs.

“Not bad,” she says. “You?”

“Kinda sucky,” Buffy says, the honesty slipping out before she can stop it. “But okay.” Faith nods.

“That’s good,” she says. She shifts in place, crossing her arms, and Buffy’s stake comes up almost automatically. “Chill,” Faith says, noticing the motion. “Like I said, I’m not here to fight.”

“Why _are_ you here, Faith?” Buffy asks, lowering her stake once more. She keeps her grip on it, though, unwilling to let go of her weapon just yet. “If you’re not looking for a fight?”

“Aww, aren’t _you_ glad to see me?” Faith asks.

_I mean, I_ am _, and that’s a problem, since last time you were here you murdered people and for some reason, I’m still really glad you’re okay_.

“Should I be?”

“Probably not.” Faith shrugs. “But I’m just here to help.”

“Help,” Buffy repeats. “If you wanted to help me, you would’ve stayed away. Sunnydale doesn’t need two Slayers, and it definitely doesn’t need a Slayer with a history of going evil and murdering people.”

“Believe me, I don’t wanna be here, either,” Faith says, uncrossing her arms. She’s twitching, Buffy notices, constantly rearranging her stance. _She’s nervous about something_. “But I don’t have a choice. Big evil is brewin’, and there’s a prophecy says I gotta stop it.”

“A prophecy,” Buffy says. “Says who? And what does it say?”

“I met a seer while I was in…” Faith hesitates. “While I was away. He gave it to me. He’s the real deal, B. I’m not making this up.”

“Alright,” Buffy says. “Say I believe you. What does the prophecy say?” Faith hesitates, long enough that Buffy’s stake hand starts to itch.

“Word for word?” Faith asks. Buffy nods. “Alright.” Faith takes a deep breath and begins to recite. “By order of the First Son, the Forsaken Ones shall be free of their cages. The sky shall fall to endless night until the last Slayer rises against him.” She stops. Buffy blinks at her.

“That’s it?” she asks. Faith nods.

“That’s it,” she says.

“Well, that’s _dumb_ ,” Buffy says. Faith laughs, and suddenly Buffy isn’t on guard at all. It’s the same laugh she’d heard on the phone back in July: unguarded, honest, not quite happy but a far cry from evil.

Buffy slips her stake back up into her sleeve and allows a little of her tension to leave her body.

“What do you mean, dumb?” Faith asks, shaking her head.

“I mean it’s stupid,” Buffy says. “That’s _it_? The usual bunch of cryptic nonsense and we don’t even get to know if we’ll win?”

“We’ll win,” Faith says immediately. “We’ve got a secret weapon.”

“What’s that?”

“There’s two of us.” Buffy blinks at her. “The prophecy mentions the last Slayer, and I’m guessin’ that’s me, since you’re not supposed to be alive.”

“Gee, thanks, Faith.”

“It’s true,” Faith says defensively. “But my point is, it just mentions the one Slayer. Only there’s two of us. Whatever’s comin’ ain’t gonna be ready for that.”

“How do you know it’s coming here?” Buffy asks. “There are other Hellmouths. The apocalypse could be apocalypsing in Cleveland, and we’d never know until it’s already…apocalypsed.” Faith gives Buffy a look, and she deflates. “Yeah, okay,” she mutters. “We get all the apocalypses. You’re right.”

“I know,” Faith says cheerfully. “Anyways, I don’t know what it is, when it’s coming, or how to stop it, but I thought you’d appreciate the heads up. Also, I’ll be hangin’ around until it’s over, so please tell your friends to not, y’know, try to kill me on sight.”

“Yeah,” Buffy says. “Um, yeah, I can do that. But, maybe in a few days? I didn’t tell anyone about the phone call, and Xander and Giles might not be okay with it, and I want to ease them into the idea before I just…outright…tell them…” Buffy trails off at the end. Faith is staring at her, her eyes in shadow by the light of the streetlamp, an unreadable expression on her face.

“Yeah, sure,” she says after a moment. “Whatever, B. It’s your call.” She turns and begins to walk away, and Buffy begins to feel unbearably as though she’s done something wrong. It’s irrational, and—and _unacceptable_. Faith _killed_ people, and Xander is rightfully angry, and Buffy is just trying to protect them both. _Everyone_ else should feel guilty before Buffy does.

But here Buffy is, feeling guilty.

“Faith, wait!” Buffy calls after her. Faith turns, looking back at Buffy. Buffy isn’t about to apologize or change her mind, but her own words are ringing in her head.

_We left her in some cheap motel…I don’t even know where she got her food…_

“Where are you staying?” Buffy asks. Faith shrugs.

“I got a place.” She turns and begins to walk away again. Buffy jogs to catch up, falling into step beside her.

“A place where?” Fatih rolls her eyes and picks up the pace, clearly not interested in talking about this.

“That’s not your problem, B,” she says. “I’m not anywhere I’m gonna hurt anyone.”

“That’s not why I—“ Buffy huffs. _I just want you to be somewhere safe._ “Look, can you just tell me?”

“Fine, whatever,” Faith says. “I’m staying in a motel on the east end of town. Happy?”

“Another motel?” Buffy asks, her tone a little more judging than she intended it to be.

“Not all of us have nice suburban moms with white picket fences and all that shit,” Faith snaps.

“We don’t have a fence,” is, for some reason, the only thing Buffy thinks to say. Faith scoffs and stops in the middle of the path, turning to face Buffy.

“What do you want?” she asks bluntly, crossing her arms across her chest. Buffy looks away, frowning.

“I just…I don’t want you staying in another motel,” she says.

“You’re not in charge here, Buffy.” Faith spits out Buffy’s full name like a curse, and it makes Buffy wince.

“I _know_ that,” she says. “I just…I don’t want this to turn out like last year, is all.” Faith turns away and starts walking again.

“It’s not going to,” she says as Buffy catches up. “Motel or not. I’m different. I’ve changed.”

“You say that, and I—I want to believe you,” Buffy says. “I do, I just—humor me here? Please?”

“Fine,” Faith says. “Where do _you_ want me to stay?” Buffy hesitates for a moment. She can’t take her to Giles; she doesn’t have space in her and Willow’s dorm room; Xander still sort of wants to kill Faith…

“You could stay at my house,” Buffy says. Faith looks over at her incredulously.

“Your house,” she repeats. “Your house that you don’t live in anymore?”

“How do you know where I live?”

“We’re on a college campus, B.” _Fair point_. Rather than admit that out loud, Buffy pushes her point.

“Yes, my house that I don’t live in anymore,” she says. “My mom’s got space. Even more now that I’m not there.”

“And your mom would be okay with that?” Buffy shrugs.

“We can go ask.” Faith stops, reaching out and grabbing Buffy’s arm. Buffy has to physically stop herself from jumping out of Faith’s grasp. Her hand is cold, even through Buffy’s jacket, and her grip is uncomfortably tight, bordering on painful, her nails digging into Buffy’s arm.

“And _you’d_ be okay with that?” she asks, searching Buffy’s face. Buffy looks away and pulls her arm free. Faith doesn’t make a move to touch her again, and Buffy is glad for it; she’s not sure she’d be able to stop herself from lashing out, fighting back. “Me, staying in your house? Alone with your mom?” Buffy steps forward, getting in Faith’s space, and meets her gaze.

“You said you wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

“And you trust that?” Faith is half-smiling, half-glaring, her head tipping to the side as she meets Buffy’s gaze.

“Should I?” Faith doesn’t have a snappy comeback for that. Something shifts behind her eyes, or maybe breaks, and for a moment, the Slayer connection flares up again, filling Buffy with a bizarre cocktail of emotions from Faith that she can’t even begin to tease apart. Then the moment is over, and Faith steps away. The connection recedes, and Buffy abruptly realizes that she’s breathing heavily.

“I’m not gonna hurt your mom,” Faith says quietly as they begin to walk once more. “If she even lets me stay.” Buffy thinks for a moment about that. _Will_ her mom let Faith stay, after everything she did to Buffy, to her friends?

(Buffy remembers a moment the year before, when Faith had walked Buffy home after patrol. Buffy had gone right up to her room to get changed, and had fully expected to come back downstairs to her mom alone, Faith already gone. Instead, she had walked into the kitchen and found her mother making Faith a cup of tea, already deep in conversation. At the time, it had terrified her. Faith had been so rough around the edges, so loud and crude and occasionally outright vulgar—none of which are traits that tend to endear people to Joyce Summers. Now, though, looking back…)

“She’ll let you,” Buffy says, without the smallest hint of doubt. Faith just grunts.

“Can I have my crossbow back now?” she asks. Buffy hesitates, but to her credit, it’s only for a moment. She holds the bow out, and Faith takes it. Buffy watches out of the corner of her eye as Faith runs her hands over the weapon, almost lovingly, checking each part of it to make sure it hadn’t been damaged with all the dropping and kicking. “I gotta get some stuff from the motel,” Faith says after a moment, resting the bow on her shoulder again. “I can meet you at your place, unless you wanna follow me around to make sure I don’t go off murdering.” Her tone is full of acerbic humor, but Buffy can’t help taking her just a little bit seriously.

“I’ll go with you,” Buffy says. Faith rolls her eyes.

“Whatever.”

The walk back to the motel is long and awkward. Faith starts whistling as they walk, some quick, light tune that Buffy doesn’t recognize. It’s at odds with the time of night, Faith’s dark clothing, the tense air between them, and everything Buffy remembers about Faith, but Buffy doesn’t tell her to stop, not wanting to break the truce they seem to have called.

When they get to the motel, Faith starts packing up her things in silence, moving around the room quickly and efficiently. Buffy watches from her position in the doorway, looking around the room curiously. It’s not as decrepit as the motel Faith had stayed in the last time she was in Sunnydale. It’s undoubtedly budget, but…actually sort of nice. Clean, well-lit. The bed looks comfy. Vaguely, Buffy wonders where Faith got the money for this, where exactly she’s been for the past few months.

“Whatcha thinking about?” Faith asks as she starts tossing clothes into her duffel bag. Buffy looks over at her, blinking in confusion. “You look all…” Faith shrugs. “Contemplate-y.”

“Nothing,” Buffy says. Faith raises her eyebrows, but doesn’t push. She zips up her duffel and slings it over her shoulder.

“Let’s move,” she says, already brushing past Buffy and out the door. Buffy hurries to catch up, following Faith down the stairs and out onto the street.

“Where were you?” Buffy asks as they walk. “Over the summer? Where’d you go?” Faith shrugs, tugging on the strap of her duffel bag.

“I was around,” she says shortly. “Why do you wanna know? Gonna do some research, find out if I killed anybody?”

“No,” Buffy says. “I’m just curious, that’s all.” That makes Faith laugh aloud.

“You’re _curious_ ,” she repeats. “About what I did with my summer. What are we, high school besties? Did we sign each others’ yearbooks while I was in a coma from the knife you stuck in me?”

“Yeah, we did, actually. It was between you killing someone and you trying to steal my boyfriend, so I can see how you would forget.” The moment she says them, Buffy regrets the words, but it’s too late. She tenses, preemptively wincing, anticipating Faith’s response, whether it comes in the form of equally vicious words or a silent fist.

Faith just speeds up a little bit, letting her hair and the darkness of the night combine to cover her face.

“My summer was pretty boring,” Buffy says after a minute, resolutely swallowing back the _I’m sorry_ that’s clawing at the back of her throat. She lets Faith stay a few paces ahead of her, giving her the space she seems to want. “Hung out with Willow and Xander and Oz. I even hung out with Cordelia before she left, which was whole new levels of weird.”

“Cordelia’s gone?” Faith says. Buffy blinks, realizing that Faith hasn’t heard from any of them in months, that she’s completely out of touch with what’s been happening to the Scoobies. She realizes what it must look like to Faith, like her going evil, or almost dying, or leaving, like none of it had any impact on Buffy or her friends, like none of them have given Faith a thought since graduation.

Like she’s already just last year’s problem, a memory of hard times past.

“She moved to L.A.,” Buffy says, and wants to follow it up with _I thought about you every day_ , but instead she says, “Angel did, too.”

“ _Angel_ left?” Faith allows Buffy to catch up, so they’re walking side by side once more. Buffy swallows preemptively to fight back the lump in her throat that always appears when she talks about Angel, but it’s not there, and her voice doesn’t tremble over his name.

“Yeah,” Buffy says. “He’s in L.A. now. I’m not sure what he’s doing. I haven’t talked to him since prom.”

“He took you to prom?”

“Sort of.” Buffy thinks back to that night, dancing with Angel, the class defender award, the odd quality the whole experience had carried with it—like a moment frozen in amber, a memory so distorted by the warm light of love that, even just a few months on, she’s no longer certain of any of the details.

Unbidden, thinking about prom brings to mind another school dance, months prior to that last dance with Angel—one that Buffy, she realizes now, had desperately wanted to go to, and perhaps even more desperately had wanted to go to with _Faith_.

(Homecoming was only the first night of theirs to end in violence.)

“I was working,” Faith says when it becomes clear that Buffy is done talking. Buffy can’t help the little jolt of triumph that floods through her, or the smile it brings with it. Her tactics succeeded; Faith is talking to her, face no longer hidden in the dark. “Got a job in a bakery for a few months.”

“A _bakery_?” Buffy has no idea where to put that piece. It’s not just the wrong cut for the Faith-shaped puzzle in her mind, it’s from a different puzzle altogether. _Faith in a bakery_. It doesn’t make any more sense in her head than it does in the air. “I figured you were in Vegas, scamming people or something.” That makes Faith laugh, and Buffy recognizes it once more as the sound from the phone that summer.

“I considered it,” Faith says, still grinning. “But if I’m spending the rest of my life being good, baking is a better life skill.” The casual way she says _the rest of my life_ like it’s a foregone conclusion fills Buffy with an odd sort of warmth, but when Buffy glances over, Faith doesn’t look like she’s given the words a second thought. Like it’s a fact for her, now, that this is her future.

(Buffy isn’t sure if she believes that, but she’s sure she’d like to.)

Faith comes to a stop, and Buffy suddenly realizes that they’re standing in front of her house. The lights are on in the kitchen window, and Buffy can see her mom washing dishes. It’s been awhile since she’s been home, but the sight of the familiar door and warm light flooding out the windows is soothing, and Buffy’s shoulders drop slightly, releasing some of the tension that she hadn’t noticed she had.

“You still sure about this?” Faith asks. Buffy glances over at her. Faith is picking at the strap of her duffel bag uncomfortably, staring at the house with an unreadable expression. Buffy can’t get a thing from the Slayer connection; Faith has only gotten better at keeping her feelings inside since last spring.

“Not really.” Honesty is the best policy if Buffy wants things to be different this time. “But I don’t want you staying in that motel.”

“Why not?” Faith is looking at her now, eyes piercing in the warm light from the house. “And don’t feed me that crap about not wanting a repeat performance of serial killer Faith. What’s the real reason you’re hung up on this?”

“It really is about last year,” Buffy says. _It’s because you feel guilty_ , a voice in the back of Buffy’s mind whispers. Buffy tells it to shut up. _Honesty can wait, actually,_ she decides. Buffy meets Faith’s gaze unflinchingly, daring Faith to call her out. Faith just scoffs and looks away.

“Whatever,” she says. “Let’s just go.” She starts up the driveway. Buffy hurries after her, catching up to her at the door.

“Hey, Mom,” Buffy calls as she steps into her house. Faith steps across the threshold, but pauses just past the door, eyes flickering with uncertainty.

“Buffy?” Joyce calls back from the kitchen. “What are you doing—oh.” Joyce stares at Faith from the entrance to the kitchen, towel still in hand.

“Hi, Mrs. S,” Faith says, smiling in a way that’s probably intended to be charming, but comes out vaguely nauseous.

“Buffy?” Joyce looks at her daughter. Buffy also tries for a charming smile, although judging by Joyce’s concerned and somewhat scared expression, she’s not succeeding.

“Faith’s back,” Buffy says unnecessarily. “And—“

“—not a homicidal maniac anymore,” Faith says.

“Well,” Joyce says. “That’s good, I suppose.” Faith nods and smiles. “What is she doing here, exactly?”

“I, um, I have a favor to ask,” Buffy says. “I didn’t want Faith staying in a motel again, and obviously she won’t fit in my dorm room, so I was wondering if she could maybe stay here?” Joyce blinks, rubs at her forehead with one hand, blinks again as she lowers her hand.

“You stayed in a motel last time?” she asks Faith, instead of responding to Buffy.

“Well, yeah.” Faith frowns at Joyce. “Where did you think I was staying?”

“I…I never really thought about it.” Joyce seem disturbed by this realization, and she twists the towel in her hands anxiously.

“But you are this time,” Buffy says, jumping back in. “And no one wants her staying in a motel again, right? So she can stay here, right?” Joyce hesitates.

“Buffy…”

“Can I talk to you for a sec, Mom?” Buffy doesn’t wait for an answer, walking past her mother and into the kitchen. Joyce follows, and they leave Faith standing in the entryway, shifting her weight back and forth uncomfortably.

“Buffy, are you sure about this?” Joyce asks quietly as soon as they stop in the kitchen. “Are you sure it’s safe?”

“I’m sure she won’t hurt you.” Buffy is shocked to find that she believes her own words. “Look, Mom, I’m not sure what her game is here, but she said she’s better now, and—I don’t know, I guess I believe her.”

“Better now,” Joyce repeats. “Buffy, killing people isn’t the flu. You don’t just _get better_.”

“And Faith didn’t!” Buffy tugs at her hair anxiously. “She didn’t just—just wake up and go good. She’s been away for months. We don’t know where she’s been or what she’s been through, or what changed for her. Just give her the benefit of the doubt?” Joyce still looks hesitant. “Mom, I love you. I wouldn’t have brought her here if I thought it would put you in danger.” Finally, Joyce relents.

“Okay,” she says. “She can stay here. But, Buffy, I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Me, too,” Buffy says. “Hey, Faith?” she calls, raising her voice. “Come on in.” Faith comes into the kitchen from the entryway. She hovers in the entrance to the kitchen uncertainly, glancing between Buffy and Joyce.

“What’s the verdict?” she asks, adjusting the strap of her duffel bag. Buffy smiles at her.

“You can stay.”

* * *

Faith sets down her backpack and glances around the room. Her duffel is already lying on the bed, but she can’t quite get herself to unpack. It doesn’t feel real yet, that she’s standing here in the guest bedroom of Buffy’s house, that she’s here with Buffy’s permission, that Buffy isn’t going to burst in any minute now with that damn knife and finish what she started back in May. That, for now at least, Faith gets to _stay_.

( _That_ knife is in its sheath, hidden in Faith’s backpack. She hadn’t wanted Buffy to see it. The blade holds memories that neither of them need to be reminded of.)

There’s a knock on the doorframe. Faith starts, jolted out of her reverie, and turns around. Joyce is standing in the doorway, smiling hesitantly.

“Buffy left,” she says.

“I figured.” Faith crosses her arms, focusing on the wall next to the door, rather than Joyce’s face.

“She told me to not tell anyone you were staying here.” Joyce steps into the room, and Faith finally looks her in the eye. “She said she doesn’t want her friends to know yet.”

“Yeah, well,” Faith says. “They’re not really my biggest fans, given the murdering and the evil and all.” Joyce is looking at her, and Faith can hear the hitch in her breath, the telltale signs of fear, but Joyce stands there and meets her gaze without a flicker of it on her face. Faith has to admire that. Buffy is a Slayer, and bravery is in the job description, but looking at Joyce, Faith thinks it comes from her, too.

“Mrs. S…” Faith takes a deep breath, ordering her thoughts. “I know it doesn’t mean a whole lot, coming from me, but for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. For everything I did to B, and to her friends, ‘cause I know you love them, too. And I know that doesn’t fix it, but I swear to you, I’m never gonna hurt any of them again.” Joyce says nothing for a long moment, long enough that Faith starts mentally calculating how many nights she can pay for at a motel.

“I don’t think I should be the one you’re apologizing to,” Joyce finally says. “I think you should be saying this to Buffy.” Faith tries for a grin, but it feels weak and forced.

“I know,” she says. “I’m gonna say it to her, eventually. But as it is, right now, I don’t think she’d listen.” The honesty burns Faith’s throat as she speaks, but she forces the words out.

“Look, Faith, it’s not that I don’t feel for you,” Joyce says. “I do. I understand that you’ve had a hard life, and maybe I could’ve done more for you. But you killed people. Innocent people. And you hurt my daughter. I don’t trust you.”

“I know,” Faith says again, feeling a bit like a broken record. It’s like no one can hear her when she speaks; no one is willing to recognize that she _knows_ what she did wrong. “Look, I…I know what I did. I don’t know about religion or karma or whatever, but yeah, I killed people. And whatever cosmic scale there is, it’s never gonna tip back in my favor, no matter what I do. There’s no coming back from that. But I’m gonna spend the rest of my life trying, alright? I owe that to—the universe, or God, or whoever.”

_I owe that to Buffy_.

“Good night, Faith,” Joyce says.

“Good night.” Joyce leaves, and although she hadn’t acknowledged what Faith had said, on the edges of her Slayer hearing, Faith hears that fearful hitch in her breathing even out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm on tumblr @daisys-quake and on twitter @thoughtsintoink. please leave comments, they are my lifeblood.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one took me awhile, but we're finally into the real action! if you were confused about where this falls in the canon timeline exactly, hopefully this clears it up a bit. i got to rewrite an episode i've always felt had more potential than it was allowed to explore, so hopefully i did it justice.
> 
> big shoutout to [rippergiles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rippergiles) for beta reading!

Buffy walks up the front steps of her driveway with a cheerful bounce in her step and a lead weight of anticipation in her stomach. It’s been a little over a week since Faith’s dramatic return to Sunnydale, and while Buffy has been home to check on her every day, the little nagging voice in the back of her mind that tells her that today is the day Faith snapped and went evil again just won’t shut up. Faith has been nothing but friendly—or at least, her version of friendly under their current circumstances, which involves a lot of dancing around their past and uncomfortable silence—since her homecoming, but Buffy’s fears are insatiable.

“Hello?” Buffy calls as she steps inside the house, closing the door behind her.

“In here!” Faith’s voice calls back from the… _kitchen_? Buffy follows the voice, stepping into the kitchen. Faith is kneading dough on the kitchen counter, her hair tied up and her hands covered in flour. The tableau is _off_ enough that Buffy has to blink several times before her brain is willing to accept it as reality.

“You…weren’t kidding about the whole bakery job thing, huh?” Buffy says, taking a seat on one of the stools at the kitchen island.

“Nope.” Faith turns away from her work for a moment to look at Buffy, smiling hello, and _oh my God she’s wearing an_ apron, _how did I miss that_? Faith is missing her characteristic dark lipstick, and between the apron, the ponytail, and the easy smile, Buffy feels like she’s looking at a different Faith, one just a little bit different from every version she’s met before, some bizarre combination of who Faith was before everything had gone so wrong last year and who she might’ve been if the world had been a bit kinder to her. This Faith is so close to familiar that Buffy has to squint to see the little bit of _strangeness_ tainting her. 

“You don’t have a recipe,” is the next thing Buffy thinks to say, her brain still trying to reconcile what she’s seeing with what she remembers and what she’s imagined.

“Nope,” Faith says again. She turns back to her bread and resumes kneading. “Don’t need one. Made this shit so often I memorized it.”

“Huh,” Buffy says, finally regaining coherency. “So you liked your job?” Faith shrugs.

“It was alright.” She picks up the dough, apparently done, and places it in a bowl. “Paid well. I’m just trying to earn my keep, now. If I’m gonna freeload off your mom it’s the least I can do.” She rinses her hands of flour and dries her hands on a towel, leaning against the counter and looking at Buffy. “Hey, listen,” she says. “Can we talk sometime? Figure out what to do about the prophecy, your friends, where we are in general?”

“Sure.” Buffy props her chin on her hands, watching as Faith begins to clean up the kitchen. “Do you wanna come on patrol tonight?” Faith glances over at her with a frown.

“I meant, like, over coffee or something,” she says. “But sure, patrol works, too.” _Coffee_? Buffy has to stop herself from rubbing her eyes in stressed out confusion. Faith has been friendly enough over the past week, so long as neither of them bring up their history and Buffy doesn’t ask too many questions about where Faith’s been these last few months, and really, all this isn’t too large a departure from Faith’s usual behavior as of late, but all at once, it’s a little much.

“Great,” Buffy says. “I’ll meet you here? Nine o’clock?” Faith nods. “Great. I have to go now. Papers to write. Homework to do. Dorm rooms to—sleep in. You know. College. Bye!” With that, Buffy hurries back out of the kitchen and out the front door.

“Dorms to sleep in,” Buffy mutters to herself as she hurries down the street. “Great excuse, Buffy. Eight out of ten for believability, ten out of ten for eloquence.”

Really, the scene hadn’t been so strange. Faith had worked in a bakery for months; of course she likes baking. Of course she hadn’t been wearing makeup to do so. The apron was just common sense; Faith’s entire wardrobe is black, and she was working with flour. The coffee…

Buffy can’t quite explain that one. She and Faith had never done _normal_ things together, even before everything went wrong. The closest they had ever gotten was Homecoming, and that had ended in Slaying anyway, at least for her. They patrolled together, almost died together, tried to kill each other, but coffee and conversation was wholly unprecedented. And as much as she didn’t want to admit it, because she really did want some kind of real friendship with Faith, something outside their shared destinies and bloodsoaked past, it freaked Buffy out a little.

Buffy realizes suddenly that she’s halfway down the hall to her dorm room, having returned to campus on autopilot, lost in thought. She pushes her confusion away and makes her way down the hall and into her room.

“Hey!” Willow says cheerfully as Buffy steps into the room. She looks up from the plant she’s watering to grin at Buffy. “Where were you?”

“Um,” Buffy says. “The…library?”

“Library?” Willow sets her watering can down. “How come?”

“It’s…soothing,” Buffy says. “It reminds me of Giles.” Willow stares at her for a moment.

“Okay, well,” Willow says, moving on. Buffy is suddenly glad for her usual lack of coherency; it makes shitty excuses a lot easier to get away with. “I got your Psych makeup work.”

“Oh, _God_ , I missed Psych.” Buffy groans, pushing a hand through her hair. “I totally spaced it. Thanks, Wil, I owe you one.”

“You owe Riley one,” Willow corrects, digging through her backpack and pulling out a few papers. “Walsh was mad ‘cause you missed class and she wouldn’t help out. He was the one who got your work together.”

“Riley?” Buffy takes the papers and sets them on her bed, her informally designated spot for things-to-be-done-later.

“Yeah.” Willow grins, and Buffy recognizes it as her _I-know-something-you-don’t-and-I’m-about-to-tell-you_ grin. In high school, it was typically followed by whatever scientific fact was fascinating her that day. Recently, the science facts have been replaced by magic facts, but the grin is the same.

Now, though, it’s followed by something else entirely.

“I think Riley has a crush on you.”

“A crush?” Buffy frowns. “On _me_? That’s ridiculous. I’ve barely spoken to him.” He’s cute, Buffy supposes, and at first, she had been interested, but she hasn’t had time to think about it lately, with Faith’s return occupying so much of her brain, her emotional energy, and her free time.

“He does!” Willow seems pretty convinced of her theory, pacing back and forth a bit. “He defended you to Professor Walsh, and when he gave me your work, he asked how you were doing, and he got all blushy and stammery.”

“Huh,” Buffy says thoughtfully. “Interesting.” She starts packing up her backpack, well aware that she has class in twenty minutes. Willow sits on her bed, bouncing slightly, looking down at Buffy.

“So?” she says. “Are you going to ask Riley out?”

“Nope.” Buffy zips up her backpack and turns to look at Willow. “He’s cute, and he’s sweet, but I don’t have time to date someone, especially not someone normal. Scott Hope 2.0 doesn’t need to happen. Besides, I’m perfectly happy all by myself right now.”

“Alright,” Willow says. “But if you change your mind, Riley seems like a good guy. He wouldn’t—well, you know. He’s not Parker.” Buffy flinches slightly.

“No, he isn’t.” Buffy shakes it off. She doesn’t want to think about Parker right now. She doesn’t really want to think about him at all. He doesn’t deserve her thought-space. “Why are you pushing this so hard? Did he ask you to wingman for him or something?” Willow flushes a pale pink.

“Um.”

“Wil!”

“Kind of!” Willow raises her hands defensively. “He got you out of trouble with Walsh, I figured I owed him one!”

“I have best friend privilege!” Buffy points at Willow in joking accusation. “That trumps all favors!” Willow raises her hands in defeat, smiling.

“You win this round,” she says. “Hey, I have to go to class in—“ she checks her watch, “—now, actually, if I wanna be on time. I’ll see you for lunch? Oz is coming, too.”

“Sounds good,” Buffy says, sitting down on her bed. “I’ll see you.” Willow waves over her shoulder as she leaves the room. Almost immediately, Buffy lets out a heavy sigh and lies down, flopping back against her bed. She stares at the ceiling above her, counting her breaths absently.

It’s getting harder to lie to her friends about Faith. Not because Faith is making it so; as far as Buffy knows, Faith hasn’t even left the Summers house since she got back. No, it’s hard because the longer Faith stays, the less Buffy _wants_ to lie. Today, especially, Faith had been a different person than she used to be. The hard anger that used to live behind Faith’s eyes is gone, replaced by something else entirely.

“She’s not that girl anymore,” Buffy says to the ceiling. _She’s not the same person who hurt those people_.

Buffy just doesn’t think her friends will see it that way.

* * *

 

“You mind if I sit?” Faith glances up from her aimless staring at the street and sees Joyce, looking down at her and smiling.

“Your house.” Faith turns her gaze back to the slowly darkening street in front of her. She used to take Roberts’ car out into the desert at night back in Roswell, watch the sun go down from the middle of the most desolate patch of sand she could find, where the light pollution from the city couldn’t bother her. She’s been watching the sunset out her window every night since she got back to Sunnydale, but the suburban California sunset can’t compare to the New Mexico stars. Millions of them; galaxies. More than Faith had ever seen, growing up in Boston.

(Sometimes Faith thinks she found something of herself out there in the desert, something more than the home Roberts gave her, even more than all the things he taught her. She felt more herself there than she ever has, and she hadn’t quite managed to bring that feeling back with her.)

“Pretty night,” Joyce says as she sits down on the front porch swing beside Faith, clearly trying to start a conversation. Faith isn’t in much of a talking mood. The sun is almost down, and the orange glow of Sunnydale is still blocking out the stars. Buffy will be there soon, and Faith had been the one to ask to talk things out, but that doesn’t stop her nerves. Tonight, Faith finds out if Buffy will ever look at her without doubt in her eyes again.

“Yeah,” Faith says to Joyce. “Pretty.” She lifts her feet up, setting them on the edge of the swing, tucking her knees under her chin. “Not as pretty as they were back home.”

“In Boston? That’s where you grew up, right?” Faith looks over at Joyce, frowning. She’s never told her that. “Your accent,” Joyce explains. “And I think Buffy said something once.” Faith looks back out into the street. The sky is a dull orange. It had been pink in New Mexico. Pink and blue and orange and red and every single color the sky could make, but always a little bit pink.

“Yeah,” Faith says. “South side. But I, uh, I wasn’t talking about Boston.”

“No?”

“New Mexico.” Faith tips her head back and forth absently, drawing her chin over her knee over and over again. “That’s where I was since—that’s where I’ve been.”

“And that’s your home now.” Faith glances over at Joyce, but Joyce is staring into the road as well. Faith has the feeling the lack of eye contact is to make her feel better. She appreciates it. Joyce is observant, and as sharp as the knife that lies in the Slaying bag beside Faith. She picks up on things: the way Faith won’t meet Joyce’s eyes when she’s talking about herself, the way Faith never talks about her childhood in anything more than the vaguest of terms, the way she goes to bed late and wakes up early and never lets herself sleep for more than a few hours at a time. Joyce seems to notice everything, and it makes Faith wonder how she never figured Buffy out before Buffy told her. Denial, Faith figures. Like daughter, like mother; Buffy’s good at it, too.

“I don’t know.” Faith lets her feet fall back to the ground. “Maybe.”

“If you miss it,” Joyce says quietly. “There’s a good chance it’s home.” And _oh_. Oh, that’s a hard thought to take for Faith, because she misses a lot of things. She misses her Watcher, she misses Boston, she misses snow, she misses the old days before she screwed everything up, she misses being able to sleep without seeing the faces of the people she’s killed, she misses clean hands and not knowing how someone else’s blood feels under her fingernails. She misses New Mexico, yes, and Roberts. She misses not knowing her own fate. Damn Roberts and his prophecy, she misses her ignorance.

And she misses Buffy. Every damn day, she sees her, and she misses Buffy still.

(Sometimes, it seems like more of Faith is missing than is there. She’s the outside pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. She knows what the picture is supposed to look like, but she can’t quite fill it in.)

Faith doesn’t answer Joyce’s statement. She’s not sure what she’d answer it with.

They sit in silence for awhile. Joyce had brought out a cup of tea, and she sips it as they watch the sun go down. Faith seeks out the faintest tinge of pink in the sky and stares at it, pretends she’s sitting on top of Roberts’ car, pretends all she has to do tomorrow is bake and learn and _try_.

That works, until Buffy comes walking up the street.

“Hey!” Buffy waves at them, grinning as she yells. Faith stands up off the swing, stretching her arms above her head to crack her back. Buffy comes up the driveway as Faith grabs her Slaying bag and swings it over her shoulder. “Hey, Mom,” Buffy says, stopping at the bottom of the front porch steps. She looks over at Faith and smiles. “You ready to go?”

“Sure.” Faith hops the porch stairs in one step, landing next to Buffy.

“You two be safe,” Joyce says, picking up her empty mug and standing up off the porch swing.

“Sure thing,” Faith says. Joyce smiles at her briefly before turning away and walking back inside the house.

They walk in silence for awhile. The sun is down, and it's not too cold out, but the fall air has a certain bite to it nonetheless. Faith savors the feeling of it on her skin. It’s close enough to the bite of the desert air at night that she can almost pretend she’s back in New Mexico.

“Since when do you and my mom…whatever that was?” Buffy asks after awhile, as they approach their first cemetery. Faith shrugs.

“I’m pretty sure the ‘be safe’ was mostly for you, if it makes you feel better,” she says.

“That’s not what I—“ Buffy huffs, crossing her arms. She’s dressed, unsurprisingly, completely impractically for Slaying, complete with high-heeled boots and carefully styled hair. Faith hadn’t even bothered doing her lipstick. She used to never leave her motel room without it, especially not if she was going to see Buffy, but now, it seems sort of pointless. She’d been trying to scare the world off back then; now, she’s doing everything in her power not to scare off Buffy.

“Since when do you and Mom sit on the porch and—and talk or whatever?” Faith snorts.

“That’s what you’re all twitchy about? You’re the one who got her to let me stick around, B. What were you expecting?”

“I don’t know.” Buffy kicks at the ground. “Are you guys, like, friends now or something?”

“Nope.” Faith pulls a stake out of her Slaying bag and twirls it absently through her fingers. “Your mom’s cool and all, but friendships and me don’t usually mix.”

“Guess that hasn’t changed,” Buffy says, more to herself than to Faith. Faith stops in her tracks, catching her stake and gripping it tightly, her other hand balling up into a fist. It takes Buffy a moment before she stops as well, turning to look at Faith. They’re inside the cemetery now, on a narrow stone path between the rows of headstones.

“Fuck you,” Faith says, her voice as ice cold as she can make it with the sudden fury running through her veins. “You don’t get to say that shit to me. You don’t have the right.”

“Faith—“

“No!” Faith stomps forward a few steps, brushing past Buffy. She turns and looks back at her, her jaw clenching so hard it hurts. “I fuckin’ tried, B. I tried for _months_ with you, and your friends. I tried to play nice with all of you, and you know what you did? You called me when somethin’ tough needed Slaying, and you left me to rot otherwise. You called me for patrol and training and watching Wolf Boy, not for hanging out because you _cared_ about me. You didn’t. You didn’t—“ Faith slams her mouth shut and turns away again, stomping off down the path.

_You didn’t care about me_. God, it even sounds whiny in her head. Childish and whiny and _of fucking course she didn’t care about you. No one ever does_.

“Yeah, but—“ Buffy’s footsteps are hurrying after her, her voice somewhere between angry and petulant. “You _killed_ _people_!”

“Yeah, well, maybe I wouldn’t have if you’d been paying attention!” It’s out before Faith can stop it. She comes to a stop, still facing away from Buffy, and she can hear Buffy’s footsteps stopping a few feet behind her.

“That’s not fair,” Buffy says quietly. “That’s not on me.” Faith’s stake cracks in her fist. The sound of splitting wood cuts through the still night air like a gunshot. She opens her hand, letting the pieces fall to the stone path with a clatter. Her palm is full of splinters, but she ignores them.

“I know,” she says, quietly enough that she’s not sure if Buffy can hear her. Faith doesn’t turn around; she keeps her eyes fixed on the mausoleum a few dozen feet away. She can hear Buffy breathing behind her. It feels a bit like confession, like in the churches her mother had dragged her to as a teenager, after Faith had started having sins to confess but before she ran away for the last time. Here she is, reciting her sins to no one like the words are being pulled out of her, only she knows that Buffy isn’t a priest, and won’t offer her any kind of absolution. “I know,” Faith says again, louder this time, making sure Buffy can hear every word. “You don’t listen, but I’m telling you, I know what I did wrong. I fucked up. I killed people. I see their fucking faces every night of my life, B.” Finally, Faith works up the courage to turn around. This isn’t a church, and she doesn’t believe in God, at least not enough to ask him for forgiveness. The only person she needs that from is Buffy, and even though Faith knows she’ll never get it, she owes it to herself to ask.

“You could’ve done better,” she tells Buffy. Buffy is staring at her, eyes wide and mouth open. “But the blood’s on my hands. I get that. Just—don’t you _ever_ tell me I didn’t try.”

Buffy opens and closes her mouth several times, seemingly unable to work up a response to Faith. Faith waits, her eyes averted from Buffy’s, unable to meet her gaze.

It’s that aversion that saves Buffy’s life. Faith is looking over Buffy’s shoulder, past her face and into the cemetery beyond. Faith sees the vampire coming out of nowhere, fangs out. He’s behind Buffy, and in her shock, Buffy hasn’t noticed him yet. He’s a fast one, and by the time Faith’s hand is in her Slaying bag, he’s already reaching for Buffy’s shoulder. Faith doesn’t think. She just grabs the first weapon her hands find and throws it through the air.

The blade of the knife the Mayor had given her slams into the vamp’s throat. It’s not enough to dust him, but it is enough to hurt a hell of a lot. The vampire stumbles back a step, hands coming up to claw at his throat, and that’s all Faith needs. She charges forward, shoving Buffy out of the way and tackling the vamp to the ground. He growls at her with what’s left of his vocal cords as she rips the knife out of his throat.

Another Faith might’ve taken this opportunity to take out her frustrations on something that deserves it. Another Faith might’ve beaten the vamp with her bare hands until he dusted from sheer agony for daring to come _near_ Buffy. Another Faith might’ve lost it completely.

Faith brings the knife back down on the vampire’s throat with a savage, controlled sort of anger, and decapitates him with one stroke. The vampire explodes into dust, covering Faith’s clothes and getting in her hair. She stands up before she inhales, having no particular desire to cough up corpse dust later. She tips her head back and closes her eyes, taking a long, slow breath and letting it out.

It’s been awhile since Faith killed anything. There hadn’t been much of the daily slaying in Roswell; as it turns out, there aren’t actually very many vampires anywhere that isn’t a Hellmouth. Roberts had never explained what, exactly, he was referring to when he said Roswell had a reputation, but whatever it was, Faith never had to fight it. Between working at four in the morning in the bakery and wanting to spend as much time with Roberts as possible after hearing the prophecy, she had stopped patrolling entirely.

It feels sickeningly good, having dust in her hair and adrenaline in her veins again. It had felt good shoving her knife through empty veins and half-decayed tendons and vertebrae. It feels good now, breathing in the cold night air, her hands trembling, violence at her fingertips once again.

Faith stumbles off into the bushes and throws up.

When she comes back, Buffy is standing right where Faith left her. She watches Faith with nervous eyes, wringing her hands together.

“What?” Faith asks, walking back over to her abandoned Slaying bag.

“Are you okay?” Faith grabs her bag and swings it up over her shoulder.

“Fine,” she says. “Swallowed some vamp dust.” Buffy nods, although she doesn’t look like she believes her.

“You, um,” she gestures vaguely at Faith, “you kept the knife.” Faith glances down. She’s still holding the Mayor’s knife. She shoves it back into her Slaying bag almost guiltily.

“It’s a good knife.” Faith waits, but Buffy doesn’t ask any more questions about the knife. Instead, she bites her lip nervously and goes back to anxiously twisting her fingers together.

“Shouldn’t we talk about…about what we were just—not talking about?” Buffy asks.

“Not if we don’t have to.” Faith starts walking again, adrenaline still leftover in her limbs. Buffy follows her.

“You said you wanted to talk,” she reminds Faith. “That’s why I invited you out here.”

“Yeah, to talk about the future,” Faith says. “Not to rehash everything I ever did wrong.”

“You’ve already done that enough,” Buffy says. Faith freezes. Buffy is looking at her, face unreadable in the dim light of the moon and the diffused glow of the city.

“Shouldn’ta told you that.” Faith tightens her grip on the strap of her Slaying bag. “Didn’t mean to.”

“But you did.” Buffy steps closer to her, reaching a hand out to set on her shoulder. “Faith, I—“

“Shut up.” Faith stomps off down the path.

“You remember them,” Buffy insists, walking after Faith.

“Yeah, I do,” Faith says, stopping again to glare at Buffy. “Is that what you wanna hear? I see their faces every fucking day of my life. When I sleep. I think about it all the fucking time, and I remember _exactly_ how it felt, havin’ human blood on my hands and knowing the person it used to be in is rotting in the ground. And I fucking hate myself for it. You happy now? You feel better that you let me go? That enough poetic goddamn justice for you to feel like you did the right thing?”

“Faith—“

“Shut _up_.” Faith raises a hand, closes her eyes, and takes the deep, slow, calming breaths that Roberts had taught her after she had an anxiety attack in the shop. She’s not spiraling like that now, but they work all the same, and Faith’s heart rate begins to slow. “Just—drop it, B. Let it go.” Incredibly, Buffy does, and wordlessly, they start walking again, finishing their sweep of this cemetery and starting off for their second.

This is exactly why Faith’s been avoiding the topic of their past over the last week. This is why she hasn’t apologized to Buffy yet, why she gets as prickly and unapproachable as she can make herself every time it seems like the subject might be about to come up.

(Because when that dam finally breaks, it’s going to tear both of them apart.)

“So,” Faith says eventually, when it becomes clear that Buffy isn’t going to initiate the conversation they actually need to have. “The future.”

“The future,” Buffy repeats. “What, I don’t know, what do you want?”

_What do I want?_ Faith isn’t sure how to answer that. She mostly wants to go back in time and save herself. Maybe go back even further and try harder with Buffy, before that night in the alley. Maybe if she could go back and try harder, Buffy would care more, and things would be better. She at least wants to go back twenty minutes and keep her mouth shut, not take the bait Buffy had unknowingly laid with that comment about Faith not having friends.

Instead, Faith decides to throw caution to the wind. It’s not like it’s going to matter what Faith wants in a few months, when they’re all done with the prophecy. Nothing Faith does will matter anymore.

(Roberts had told her not to think like that, and really, Faith is trying, but it’s addicting, the idea of nothing she does having real consequences.)

“I want to try again,” Faith says honestly. “I want to do this right this time. Co-Slayers, Chosen Two, the whole thing.” Faith doesn’t say she wants to be friends, but it’s there behind her lips, clamoring to be spoken.

“Okay,” Buffy says, barely hesitating. Faith blinks at her.

“Okay?”

“Okay.” Buffy meets her gaze, jaw set with determination. “I want that, too.” Faith grabs the sparks of hope inside her, twists them up, and shoves them into the smallest emotional box she can find.

_It doesn’t matter. None of it matters_.

“But, Faith…” Buffy takes a deep breath, and Faith braces herself. “If that’s what you want, you have to start acting like it. Every five minutes your whole mood changes. Half the time it seems like you wanna be friends and the other half it seems like you’re trying to stop yourself from losing it again. That has to stop, alright? You have to mean it.” _I already mean it more than you’ll ever know, B_.

“Okay,” Faith says. “But if I’m gonna do that, you have to tell your friends I’m back.” Buffy hesitates.

“I will,” she says. “But…maybe in awhile? I just—Xander is _still_ pissed off that I let you go, and Giles will be all…Giles-y and have _opinions_ , and Willow—well, Willow would probably be at least kinda alright with it, but—“

“But you don’t want to tell her.” Faith raises an eyebrow at Buffy, daring her to disagree. To her credit, Buffy doesn’t bother arguing. She drops her head, not meeting Faith’s gaze.

“Not yet,” she says again. Faith mirrors Buffy’s posture, glaring at the ground.

“Whatever, B,” she says. “Up to you.”

“Okay.” They walk in silence for a bit. “Hey, Faith? After the prophecy is all over, are you…are you planning to stick around?” Bitter laughter rises in Faith’s chest, but she pushes it back down. She looks up at the sky, the scant few stars decorating a vast expanse of indigo, not the same jet-black it had been in the desert. She could count the points of light on her fingers, and the sight leaves her empty.

“No,” Faith says. “I think I’ll want to go home.” She’d rather be somewhere with stars.

“Home,” Buffy repeats. “Where’s that these days?” Faith hesitates, but only for a moment.

“Roswell, New Mexico.” Out of the corner of her eye, Faith can see Buffy frowning in confusion.

“ _Roswell_? That’s where you’ve been?”

“Mostly.” Faith pulls out a stake. “I call dibs on this guy.” She spins around, slamming the stake into the chest of the vampire that’s been following them for a few minutes. The vamp hisses, then explodes into dust. This time, Faith lets it feel good.

* * *

Faith flips her knife through the air, catching the blade between the pads of her fingers effortlessly. She glares at the weapon like it’s done something wrong before flipping it again, catching it by the handle this time. The blade catches the light from the lamps on the campus path, flashing white against the dark metal.

It’s been two weeks since she and Buffy came to their agreement. Two weeks of patrolling together, the old banter they used to have slowly reemerging. Two more weeks of living in Joyce’s house, baking in her free time, whenever she thinks too much about Buffy and needs something else to focus on. Two weeks of watching sunsets from the porch, which has become a habit for her and Joyce. Joyce has started bringing her tea, as well. Most days they just sit. Sometimes Joyce talks about work, about Buffy’s childhood, about how it feels to be a mother to a Slayer. Sometimes Faith talks about New Mexico, about Roberts in the vaguest of terms. Faith thinks that maybe this is what it would’ve been like to have a mother

Two weeks of killing things, vampires and a few minor demons. Things with faces, thoughts, voices, memories. Evil things, dead things, but things all the same. It hasn’t stopped feeling good yet, and that worries Faith.

Two weeks, and Buffy still hasn’t told her friends that Faith is back. It bothers Faith more than she has any right to be bothered. She’s stopped bringing it up with Buffy; she’s sick of hearing excuses, but still, it irks at her, a nagging whisper in the back of her mind, telling her that Buffy is ashamed of her, that that’s why she hasn’t told anyone.

(Of course Buffy is ashamed of her. Faith is a _murderer_.)

Faith spins the knife on her palm, watching it as it flicks in circles. Buffy had told her not to bother patrolling that night. It’s Halloween, nothing ever happens on Halloween. Buffy said Giles had been wearing a sombrero, and he had told her not to bother. So Buffy is going to a party at some fraternity house and Faith is patrolling campus because she’s paranoid.

Buffy had mentioned the fraternity by name when she had mentioned the party earlier. Faith knows where the house is from patrolling campus with Buffy, and she _knows_ Buffy’s friends will be there, she knows it’s a _terrible_ idea, but some part of her wants to just show up. To just walk into the party like she belongs—and maybe she does, it’s a party, Faith is good at parties—and see what Buffy’s up to. Let Willow and Xander and Oz and whoever else is there see her, see the looks on their faces when they find out she’s back. See the look on Buffy’s face when she realizes that the boundary she’d built between Faith and the rest of her life is crumbling down.

Faith blinks and realizes she’s on the path to the frat house. Well, she’s on her way, she might as well swing by. Not to cause trouble, just to see what’s going on, make sure there’s nothing needs killing in the general vicinity.

(Maybe to cause a little bit of trouble.)

Faith doesn’t bother putting away her knife as she walks up the path towards the frat house. It’s Halloween; people will assume it’s rubber. The path is well decorated, fake spiderwebs hanging from the lampposts, a few fake limbs in the hedge. The house looms at the end of the path, and even from here, Faith can tell that something’s up. All the lights are off, from what she can tell, and for the site of a frat party, it’s suspiciously lacking in obnoxious, pounding music.

“Hello!” Faith whirls, her knife coming up defensively. There’s…a _thing_ on the path behind her. It’s large, and fuzzy, and white, and…. _talking?_

“You scared the hell out of me,” Faith says, taking a deep breath and lowering her knife.

“I know, right?” the girl in the bunny suit says happily, glancing down at her costume proudly. “Rabbits.” She says the word like she’s imparting some grand wisdom, and Faith decides not to bother arguing with this girl.

“Yeah,” Faith says. “Rabbits.” She starts walking again, and the girl keeps pace with her, the gigantic ears of her costume flopping with every step.

“Are you going to the party, too?” the girl asks. “My boyfriend invited me. Well, I don’t really know if he’s my boyfriend. I think he is, but I don’t think he thinks so. But we have a lot of sex, and neither of us are having sex with anyone else, and sometimes we just hang out and don’t have sex, so I think we’re dating.” Faith clears her throat uncomfortably.

“Cool.”

“Oh! I’m sorry, I haven’t told you my name,” the girl says. “That’s rude, isn’t it? Xander says I have to learn to be polite to people. Xander’s my boyfriend. I’m Anya.” Faith nearly trips.

“Xander?” she says. “Xander Harris?”

“Yes! Do you know him?”

“Nope.” Faith twists the handle of her knife in her hand. _This_ is Xander’s new girl?

_This is just unacceptable levels of weird_.

“Well, that doesn’t make sense,” Anya says, frowning. “Why would you know his last name if you don’t know him?”

Faith is saved from having to answer that by their ascending the front steps of the frat house and being immediately confronted by the fact that there is no door to the house. The wall is smooth, flat, all the way along the porch. Just wall and more wall, and no way in anywhere.

“Huh,” Faith says aloud. “Well, that’s definitely interesting.”

“Why isn’t there a door?” Anya says. “This is where Xander said the party was.” She gasps. “Was he _lying_ to me? Is he dumping me? Is this a really mean way of breaking up with me? If this is how he dumps me, well that’s just not going to fly. I’ll cover him in boils. I’ll turn his penis into one giant boil. I’ll turn his skin inside out. I’ll—do none of those things, of course, because I have no magic powers, and never have. Magic isn’t real. What?” She says the last bit while looking at Faith, apparently remembering that she isn’t, in fact, alone. Faith frowns, still looking at the place where the door seems most likely to have previously been.

“You’re a witch?” she says.

“I’m a rabbit,” Anya says. “Much scarier.” Faith rolls her eyes and glances over at Anya.

“Chill,” she says. “I know about magic and vampires and all that shit. And I’m not gonna stop you if you wanna curse Xander.” Anya relaxes.

“Well, that’s good to know,” she says. “But I can’t, sadly, I don’t have any powers anymore. I used to be a demon, but now I’m just a stupid human with a stupid, squishy, breakable body. The only upside to all this is Xander’s penis, but now I can’t even have that.” She punctuates the last point by gesturing at the doorless house.

“I’m not sure,” Faith says. She reaches out a fist, tapping on the side of the house. She tilts her head, listening to the sound it makes. “See, it’s hollow here. There’s a room behind this wall.” Anya frowns and opens her mouth to speak.

“ _Help_!” The scream comes from above them, in the house somewhere. Faith runs off the porch, looking up at the house, searching for the source of the sound. There’s a girl, leaning out an open window, screaming into the night. “Help! Help me! Help—“ The sound is cut off as the walls next to the window rise up and wrap around it, covering it and trapping the girl’s screams in the house.

“What was that?” Anya is walking off the porch, her rabbit ears flopping comically as she drops down each step to the ground. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” Faith says. She jumps back up onto the porch, hurrying back over to the doorless wall of the house. She takes a few steps back, lining herself up with her target.

“Wait!” Anya comes back up the steps, her ears still bouncing. “You never told me your name.”

“ _Seriously_?” Faith shakes her head. “I’m Faith. Now stay back.” She bounces on the balls of her feet a few times, psyching herself up, before she charges forward, shoulder first, aimed straight for the hollow wall.

She breaks through on the first try, and _fuck, that’s going to hurt later_. She’s going to have a massive bruise on her shoulder, she can already tell, but it’s worth it, because she’s stumbling into the house.

“Wow,” Anya says from behind her, following Faith through the hole she had created. “Why did you do that?” Faith glances around the inside of the house. The room is empty, dimly lit, with crimson carpet on the stairs and elaborately carved bannisters. The house is making the Slayer part of her uneasy, her skin crawling and itching.

“Something’s in this house,” Faith says. “Something evil, and I’m going to find out what. Stay close.” With that, she heads for the stairs. Anya’s footsteps, muffled by her costume, follow her.

* * *

“Buffy?” Buffy spins around, searching for the source of the voice. It sounds like Willow, but it’s distant, muffled. She’s somewhere else in the house, calling out. Buffy takes a deep, shaky breath. She shouldn’t be this scared. She’s faced down demons, vampires, Angelus, the Mayor, and here she is, getting freaked out by a haunted house.

“Buffy?” Willow calls again, sounding closer. “Buffy!” She sounds panicked, terrified. She’s quite close now, close enough that, when Buffy turns around again and sees a door, she charges for it, ripping it open and rushing through and—

—and falling, a dozen feet straight down. The door opens near the ceiling of another room, and Buffy hits the floor hard, crumpling with a groan of pain. She rolls back up onto her hands and knees quickly, blinking against the darkness of this new room, but she can’t see anything. She stands, taking a few steps backward until her back is against the wall.

The door above her seems to have vanished, as the light of the hallway she had been in is no longer there. A single dim, incandescent bulb hangs from the ceiling above her head, offering a pitiful amount of light in the apparently spacious room. Buffy’s hands and knees are damp from the floor, which is uneven and wet. She’s in some kind of basement, she’d guess, although why a frat house has such a creepy basement is—well, not entirely unprecedented, actually. Buffy still remembers the frat boys she’d dealt with a few years ago, the ones who’d worshipped some kind of giant snake thing.

This is her last frat party, she decides. Too much Slaying involved.

Buffy goes to step away from the wall and start looking for a way out. Before she can move, however, something shoots out of the wall beside her, so close it brushes up against her cheek. She inhales sharply, going for the stake hidden in her shirt, but the thing clamps around her throat, while others grab her wrists and ankles, pinning her to the wall.

They’re hands, Buffy realizes. The familiar scent of rotting flesh fills her nose. Dead hands, reaching out of wall, holding her down.

Buffy begins to thrash, yanking at the hands around her wrists, but she can’t move them an inch, even with all of her Slayer strength. She’s trapped.

The light hanging from the ceiling seems to get a bit brighter, and Buffy’s eyes widen as a figure standing across the room is illuminated. It’s just a silhouette at first, long hair and slender shoulders, but the figure steps forward, farther into the light.

“Hey, B,” Faith says as the light falls over her face. “You look a little tied up.”

Buffy can’t muster up a response. Faith looks…her hair is unwashed and stringy, tangled and dirty where it hangs over her shoulders. She’s wearing a tank top, and Buffy can see where a large chunk of her left bicep is missing. The wound isn’t bleeding. Her muscle is visible, bits of flesh stretched over inches of yellowed, cracked bone. The exposed flesh around the wound is festering, green and putrid.

The worst part is Faith’s face. One of her eyes is bulging outwards, like it’s no longer fully attached to its socket, and the other is empty, missing, a hole in her head. Her skin is pale yellow, almost mummified. She’s grinning at Buffy, dark lipstick as glossy as ever over a decaying mouth.

“You’re too late, you know,” Faith says, walking closer to Buffy. Buffy is frozen in place, unable to struggle, unable to speak. “You could’ve saved me. But it’s too late now.” Faith stops inches away from Buffy. She raises one hand, and Buffy can see where her skin is pulling back and away, leaving inches of dry, cracked fingernails exposed. Faith caresses Buffy’s cheek softly, still smiling at her.

“You’re not very good at being honest,” she says, like she’s talking to a small child. “Maybe if you were, it wouldn’t have to be this way.” Faith digs those inhumanly long nails into Buffy’s cheek, drawing blood. Buffy can feel it dripping out, running along her jawline. “But you’re _weak_ ,” Faith says, the patronizing tone gone, replaced by a cold sort of anger. “You’re weak, and me? I’m already dead.” Faith leans forward, and Buffy closes her eyes, bracing herself to be bitten, or have her face eaten off, or whatever it is that zombie Slayers do to their victims.

Faith kisses her.

Buffy is too in shock to open her eyes, and she can’t lift her arms to push Faith away. Faith’s lipstick is waxy, old and dried out, and Buffy can feel it smearing on her lips. Faith’s lips are cold. They taste like death and decay, and though the kiss only lasts a heartbeat, the taste stays in Buffy’s mouth.

Faith pulls away and steps back. Buffy’s eyes slip open. Faith is grinning at her, her remaining eye bulging farther out of its socket, her lipstick smeared. Buffy starts to speak, to beg, to question, to…she doesn’t really know, and she never gets the chance to find out what she might say. Another hand, dead and covered in dirt, rips out of the wall. This one comes down over Buffy’s mouth, holding her words inside.

“See ya, B,” Faith says, raising one skeletal hand and wiggling her fingers at Buffy in a mocking wave. Another hand comes out of the wall, descending over Buffy’s eyes, and just before it cuts off her vision, she watches Faith’s other eye fall out. The last things Buffy sees before the darkness overtakes her are two gangrenous eye sockets and sickeningly wide smile.

* * *

“Anya?” Faith turns another corner, into yet another long, empty, dimly lit hallway. This house is bigger on the inside than should be physically possible, which only serves to further irk the Slayer instinct. She and Anya had gotten separated almost immediately. Faith had taken a right at the top of the stairs, only to glance over her shoulder and realize that the girl—ex-demon girl, apparently—was nowhere to be seen. “Anya?” Faith doesn’t know the girl, and she’s apparently dating _Xander_ , which doesn’t exactly make her look good, but whatever’s in this house is dangerous, and this is Faith’s job now. Protecting strangers she doesn’t know or like very much from evil.

Faith turns yet another corner, but this one leads to a door about ten feet down the hall. Faith glances back over her shoulder, but the hallway she had come down is now five different hallways, none of which are well-lit or inviting.

“You want me in the room?” Faith asks the house. “Well, come and get me.” Faith walks down the hallway, opens the door, and steps through.

Immediately, something in her tells her that something here is _wrong_. Her instincts, already uneasy, begin to howl at her to _get out now_ , _you shouldn’t be here_. Faith has always trusted her instincts, but she’s also a naturally curious person, and it takes her conscious mind a moment to catch up to what her instincts have already realized.

The room is small, dingy, with ashy grey carpet from 1970 at its youngest. It’s a bedroom, although it barely has enough room for the twin-sized bed pushed up against the far wall. The tiny, rickety dresser next to the bed is empty, all its drawers pulled open. The walls are decorated with peeling wallpaper, with a few faded posters for heavy metal and punk bands tacked up. The bed is unmade, rough-looking sheets strewn across it.

“Oh, Jesus,” Faith whispers, her throat suddenly dry. It’s her childhood bedroom.

For a moment, Faith is fourteen years old again, a backpack much too large for her tiny, underfed frame on her back, staring around her room for the last time. She’s listening to her mom in the living room with useless human ears, waiting for her to stop walking around, to start snoring off her whiskey so Faith can make her escape, across a carefully charted path through the apartment, using every floorboard that doesn’t squeak. Then she shoves the memories away, pushing them back into the mental boxes she’s kept them in for years now.

“This isn’t real,” Faith says, taking a step back. “This isn’t—“ Her back hits the wall. The door, where the door is supposed to be, it’s just a wall now, flat and cold against Faith’s back. Faith stumbles forward again, her breath coming in sharp gasps.

_You’re having an anxiety attack, Faith_ , Roberts had said when this had happened in the bakery. _You’re going to be okay_.

“You’re going to be okay,” Faith whispers to herself, closing her eyes and standing still. She presses the heels of her hands into her eyes, taking the deepest breaths she can manage, counting backwards in her head. “You’re going to be okay. You’re going to be okay. You’re going to—“

“Are you?” Faith’s head jerks up, and she spins on the spot, looking back towards the wall where the door had been. The door is back now, and the source of the voice is closing it behind her. “Hi,” Buffy says as she turns around and looks at Faith.

“What are you doing here?” Faith says, her heart in her throat. “What are you—you can’t be here.” _She can’t see this, oh God, she can’t see this—_

“Faith,” Buffy says. She’s smiling gently, sympathetically. Faith has never seen a look like that on Buffy’s face before. Not for her, at least. For Willow and Giles and Angel, especially Angel, and even Xander, but not for her. Never for her.

“It’s going to be okay,” Buffy says, still smiling, and Faith’s breaths begin to slow and deepen. Buffy steps forward, and Faith instinctively steps back. Buffy doesn’t acknowledge the movement. She just keeps coming forward, closer and closer to Faith.

“Buffy, we need to find Anya, and…whoever else is…there’s something…” Faith trails off, backing up as Buffy comes within inches of her. “Buffy?” Buffy shushes her gently, still walking towards her. Faith’s knees hit the edge of the bed, and she sits dumbly, confused as all hell. “Buffy, what’s—“

“Faith, I don’t know if anyone’s ever told you,” Buffy says. She’s standing over Faith now, looking down at her. She’s still smiling, but it’s shifted, less sympathetic and more…Faith can’t quite identify what this new emotion is, but if she had to hazard a guess, she would call it _hungry_. “But sometimes, talking actually makes things worse.” She climbs into Faith’s lap then, straddling her and slipping an arm around Faith’s shoulders. Faith reaches out to steady her automatically, her hands coming to rest on Buffy’s waist.

“Buffy, what—“

“ _Shush_.” Buffy shakes her head in exasperation. She runs a hand through Faith’s hair, and Faith leans into the contact despite herself, savoring the feeling of Buffy’s nails on her scalp.

Faith isn’t sure what Buffy is doing, why she’s doing it, why it’s happening _here_ , of all places, in some demon-house-generated version of her childhood bedroom, but it’s—it’s—

It’s not as if Faith has never _thought_ about it.

Buffy had always been so pretty, and so brave, and _loyal_ in a way Faith just can’t comprehend. She had blamed it on the Slayer connection, on some preprogrammed magical instinct to protect someone like her, but Faith had learned a lot of things about herself in the past few months, once Roberts gave her someone to talk to, someone who would listen, and one of those things is that Faith had always cared about Buffy in a way that wasn’t as platonic or magical as she might’ve convinced herself.

So maybe it’s not the right time or place, and maybe there’s still far too much in the air between them for this to be healthy, but Faith tightens her grip on Buffy’s waist and thinks _I deserve this. I deserve something good_.

“What are you doing?” Faith asks softly. Buffy is rubbing the tip of her nose against Faith’s, grinning that hungry, happy grin, and Faith is a little bit consumed with how _cute_ the gesture is.

“What am I doing?” Buffy repeats, shifting back a little bit to look Faith in the eyes. “I’m doing what you wanted. This is what you always wanted, isn’t it?” Faith licks her lips, suddenly very aware of the goosebumps breaking out across her skin.

“Y-yeah,” she says. “It is.” Buffy smiles so wide her eyes crinkle up at the edges. She leans in, missing Faith’s mouth, pressing a kiss to the spot just behind and below Faith’s jawline. Faith shivers at the feeling. Buffy’s lips are cold. It’s chilly in the house, even for October.

When Buffy pulls away from Faith’s neck, her face is consumed with veins, her eyes are yellow and catlike, and her teeth have twisted into fangs.

(The little bit of hope Faith had let out of the box inside her chest turns to dust, exploding like a vampire in the sunrise.)

“This is your fault,” Buffy hisses, her words thick and altered by the new shape of her mouth. Suddenly the nails in Faith’s hair are claws, digging into her scalp. “Your fault, _Faith_.” Faith can’t move. Her hands remain glued to Buffy’s waist, her eyes fixed on Buffy’s, on the yellow irises that have replaced Buffy’s human, sparkling green.

(Faith loves Buffy’s eyes.)

“You do this,” Buffy says. “You do this to everything you touch, do you understand? You’re rot, Faith, you’re nothing but a disease, infecting everything you touch and turning it all dark. All of it. You touch the light and you bring it into darkness. It’s _all. Your. Fault._ ” With that, Buffy brings her face back down to Faith’s neck.

Faith feels the fangs go in, cold and sharp, at the same time as she feels a knife slip into her stomach, straight through the scar Buffy had left there that spring.

* * *

Buffy whips around the corner of the hallway, heart pounding. She’s getting lightheaded. She has Slayer strength and stamina, but so does the… _thing_ chasing her. She can’t call it Faith anymore; whatever it is, it isn’t human. It’s been losing pieces as it chases her through the house. Buffy can tell when she’s passed through a room before by the skin and rotting flesh lying on the floor.

Buffy doesn’t know how long she’s been running. She doesn’t remember leaving the basement, but it seems like she’s been running for hours, hearing the thing that wears Faith’s face’s footsteps behind her, keeping pace, always getting closer but never quite catching up. Her lungs are aching. Her chest feels too small to hold them anymore, to contain the great gasping breaths she’s taking.

_There!_ Off the side of the hallway, there’s a door. Maybe it leads to another hall, maybe to a room, but either way, Buffy can hold it closed against the Faith-thing chasing her long enough to catch her breath. Buffy dives for the door, relief flooding over her when she finds the handle unlocked. She’s inside in a heartbeat, putting her back up against the door. That, while she’s leaning against the door, trying to catch her breath and slow her pounding heart, is when Buffy sees her.

Faith is lying in the middle of the room, curled up on her side in the fetal position, smaller than Buffy ever knew she could make herself. Buffy knows as soon as she sees her that this isn’t the monster that’s been following her. This is _Faith_.

Faith is whimpering quietly. Her eyes are open, but they stare, unseeing, at the wall. She’s twitching, wincing, making quiet noises of fear and protest that are probably meant to be words, but they’re too quiet and broken to be coherent.

“Buffy,” Faith says, and that one Buffy catches. Faith says it like a prayer, like a plea. “Please.”

“Faith?” Buffy steps away from the door, the threat behind it already forgotten in favor of the much more important issue in front of her. Faith doesn’t respond. She seems almost catatonic. There’s nothing conscious in her eyes. “Faith.” Buffy kneels down next to Faith, less than a foot away.

“Please,” Faith says again, and this time it’s a groan, like she’s in pain. “Please stop.”

“ _Faith_.” Buffy can’t stop herself; she reaches out and puts her hand lightly on Faith’s shoulder. “You in there?” Faith mumbles something inaudible, but the words Buffy swears she hears make her blood run cold.

“Kill me,” Faith says, louder this time, her head twitching against the floor. The tendons in her neck stick out as her jaw works silently. “Just kill me.”

“Faith!” Buffy’s grip tightens on Faith’s shoulder, and that’s what snaps her out of it. Faith’s eyes widen, consciousness flooding back into them, and her body spasms once, a disjointed, jerky movement. Then she shoves against the floor with all of her limbs, throwing herself away from Buffy. “Faith.” Buffy starts to stand, but decides against it. She’d rather not risk making Faith feel threatened. “Faith?”

Faith is on her hands and knees, several feet away. She’s wheezing, and even from here, Buffy can tell that she’s trembling.

“Faith,” Buffy says, as softly as she can. Faith’s head snaps up, and suddenly Buffy is staring into her eyes. Faith is more afraid than Buffy has ever seen her, her pupils huge, her shoulders hunched protectively around her neck. “It’s okay.” Buffy doesn’t move as she speaks, keeping her eyes fixed on Faith, her hands by her sides. “It’s okay.” Faith’s eyes slip away from Buffy’s, shifting back towards the far wall. “Faith, look at me. Look at me.” Faith does. Slowly, her breathing gets quieter, slipping away from that awful, in-out wheezing.

“Buffy?” Faith asks in a whisper after a minute. Her voice is rough. Buffy imagines her throat is raw after…however long she’s been here, wheezing and begging on the cold wooden floor.

“Yeah, it’s me,” Buffy says. Faith sits back on her knees, taking a few deep breaths. Buffy guesses it’s safe to stand now, and does so, walking over to Faith. Wordlessly, she holds out a hand. Faith takes it, and Buffy pulls her to her feet.

Buffy holds Faith’s hand a little longer than necessary. Faith is pale, and still shaking just a bit, and her hand is cold and clammy in Buffy’s. Buffy squeezes her fingers gently, smiling at Faith before she lets go.

“Well, that _sucked_ ,” Faith says. Buffy laughs, shaking her head.

“Sure did.”

“It’s not real.” Faith is rubbing at the side of her neck, massaging a spot near where it meets her shoulder. “The shit we’re seeing. None of it is real.” Buffy thinks about the monstrous version of Faith, the bizarre basement, the running.

“Definitely not,” Buffy says, thinking about that version of Faith kissing her. “So what is it? Some kind of spell? Some—“

“B,” Faith interrupts. She gestures around the room. “Look around.” Buffy does so, turning in a slow circle, and she gasps. She’s not sure how she missed it at first. She had been so fixated on Faith, on helping her, making sure she was okay.

There are other people in the room. The rest of Buffy’s friends. There’s Willow in the corner, eyes glazed over the way Faith’s had been, her hands making tiny defensive motions at an unseen enemy. There’s Oz, pulling at his hair. Xander is just sitting, staring at nothing, utterly motionless. And Anya, who is…in a rabbit costume, which Buffy decides to worry about later, later meaning never again. Anya is clawing at her own face, reddening the skin. There’s already one open scratch on her cheek, and judging by how inflamed the skin looks, more will be coming.

“Oh, _shit_ ,” Buffy says.

“Anya!” Faith is already moving, grabbing Anya’s hand.

“What?” Buffy says. “When did you two meet?”

“Anya,” Faith says again. She’s holding both of Anya’s wrists tightly, staring at her. “Whatever you’re seeing, it’s not real. Wake up.” Her tone is tense, angry, and Buffy is about to snap at her for being rough when Anya gasps deeply and the light returns to her eyes.

“ _Rabbits_ ,” Anya says. “I was being eaten by—“

“Yeah, cool, whatever.” Faith lets go of Anya’s wrists, straightening up. “Listen, you used to be a demon, what the fuck is going on this house?”

“When did you guys—“

“Well, whatever it is, it’s not real,” Anya says, pushing herself to her feet. She wipes at her face with one costumed arm, leaving a streak of red on the fake white fur.

“Yeah, no shit,” Faith says. “But what’s causing it?”

“ _Guys_!” Both of them finally turn to look at Buffy. “Can we wake up everyone else? And then figure out how to stop whatever’s happening? And then you guys can tell me when you made friends?” Faith shrugs, and Anya mutters something, likely some kind of snarky comment, under her breath, but they obey. Anya goes to wake up Xander, and Buffy quickly snaps Willow out of her trance.

“Lights!” Willow says loudly as she comes to. “I was making lights—“

“Wasn’t real,” Buffy interrupts. “Whatever it was, it wasn’t real. There’s something in the house.” Willow nods, and allows Buffy to pull her to her feet.

“Something?” Willow says as Buffy wakes up Oz, whose expression doesn’t change much upon returning to reality, although there’s a strong relief deep in his eyes. “Do we know what—oh my God.” Buffy turns. Willow is staring at the middle of the room, where Faith is standing, _distinctly_ uncomfortable.

“Um,” Buffy says. “Yeah.”

“Hey, I can see me again!” Xander is standing, too, now, waving one hand back and forth in front of his own face. “Hey, Wil, can you—“ He, too, sees Faith, and his words choke off sharply.

“Guys, can we talk about this later?” Buffy says, flicking her gaze between her friends imploringly. Oz is looking at Faith curiously, and Buffy swears he’s sniffing the air. Maybe absence of previous evil smells like something to werewolves. “We’ve got a—“

“Demon,” Faith says. She’s staring at the ground in front of her feet. Buffy follows her gaze. There’s some sort of symbol painted on the floor, looking notably witch-y.

“She’s right,” Anya says. “That’s a summoning circle of some kind—“

“Excuse me?” Xander says. He’s staring at all of them, eyes wide, shoulders tensed. “Are we all just ignoring the psychopath in the room.”

“Oh, fuck o—“

“Faith!” Buffy cuts her off loudly. “Xander, I promise we’ll talk about it, just—demon! That’s a bigger problem!”

“No, it’s not!” Xander shakes his head. “That’s—what is she _doing_ here?”

“We need her,” Buffy says. “Please, just leave it for now, Xander, we’re gonna talk about it, I swear—“

“I’m not _leaving_ it! Stake her! Or tie her up or—“

“Xander.” Willow sets a hand on her best friend’s arm. “No one here is gonna let her hurt anyone. Demon first.” Xander clearly isn’t happy about it, but he shuts up, and Buffy sends Willow the most grateful look she can manage.

“How do we get rid of the demon?” Buffy directs the question at Anya, who shrugs.

“It’s different for all of us—them,” she says. “You could try destroying the circle—“ Faith slams her heel into the wooden floor, smashing the floorboards to pieces and leaving a fairly large gap in the circle. “—but I wouldn’t advise it,” Anya finishes. “It could make the demon manifest.” Sure enough, what remains of the circle begins to glow, illuminating the dark room.

“Well, shit,” Faith says, stepping out of the circle. The light seems to build to a crescendo, brighter and brighter until it’s suddenly gone, all at once.

“Where’s the demon?” Xander asks. Buffy glances around curiously, until her gaze is drawn to a tiny figure, standing where the circle had been. It’s maybe eight inches tall, dressed in robes, and… _yelling_?

“Fear me,” it shouts in a high-pitched voice. “Fear me!”

“That’s just sad,” Faith says. “Really trying to compensate for something, huh?” She raises her foot and brings it down on the demon’s head, squishing him into a tiny-demon-sized pancake. Buffy winces at the sound it makes, a wet thump, like someone smashing a rotten cantaloupe against the ground. She glances around the room in the silence that follows the Slaying.

Everyone is staring at Faith. Well, almost everyone; Anya is rubbing at the bloodstain on her costume and frowning. Besides her, though, everyone’s attention is unwavering. Willow’s hand is still on Xander’s arm, but she’s staring at Faith, eyes wide and a bit scared. There are veins standing out in Xander’s neck as he glares. Oz is as unreadable as always, but he’s stopped sniffing the air, instead crossing his arms and placing himself subtly between Faith and Willow. Buffy finally directs her gaze back to Faith, and winces at what she sees. Faith’s jaw is working, her face drawn into a scowl. She crosses her arms, glaring back at each of Buffy’s friends in turn. 

“Now can you stake her?” Xander says to Buffy.

“Fuck this,” Faith says, shaking her head. “Do whatever the hell you want, B. Tell ‘em whatever. It’s not my fucking problem.” With that, she stomps over to the door.

“Stop her!” Xander says, waving his arms and dislodging Willow’s hand. Faith kicks the door open and disappears down the hallway. Buffy watches her go, worrying her lip between her teeth anxiously. She doesn’t bother making a move to stop her. “What the hell, Buff?” Xander demands. Buffy turns back to her friends.

“Xander’s kinda right,” Oz says. “I wouldn’t say it like that myself, but you know, the situation just might merit it. What the hell?” By virtue of being Oz, he sounds almost polite saying it, but the fact that he says it at all says it all.

“They both have a point,” Willow says. She looks apologetic, her eyes wide and concerned when Buffy meets her gaze. “What is Faith doing back in town? How long has she been here?” Buffy looks over at Anya, who is still picking at her sleeve.

“What?” Anya says. “Don’t look at me. _I_ don’t know that girl. She seems pretty cool if you ask me.” Buffy smiles, just a bit.

“Thanks, Anya.”

“No!” It’s Xander again, sounding even more upset. “No thanks, Anya! Faith is evil! Big evil! Why is she here, and why did you _let her leave_?”

“She’s—“ Buffy bites her lip and takes a breath. “She’s on our side now, Xander. Alright? She’s been back for awhile now, she just wants to help.”

“And you believe that?” Xander shakes his head in disgust. “God, she has you brainwashed, doesn’t she? Did trusting the dark, broody, evil type work out _so great_ last time that you just had to try it again?”

“Okay, you know what?” Buffy says, ignoring the way she had flinched at the thinly veiled jab at Angel. “Fuck you, Xander. You don’t know anything, alright, _anything_ , compared to me. I’m the _Slayer_ , and you’re…what, exactly? What do _you_ bring to the table? This is my _life_. I get to make the decisions. This—” she gestures around the room. “—this is your after-school activity, only not anymore, since you, y’know, didn’t get into college.”

“ _Buffy_.” Willow sounds angry too, now, and on some level, Buffy doesn’t blame her. Xander doesn’t deserve this. He’s well within his rights to be upset and confused by Faith’s return. But Buffy is _tired_ , damn it, and she can still taste the thing that looked like Faith in her mouth, and she _trusts_ Faith. She really does, more than she ever thought she would. She’s not going to let Xander belittle that. Besides, her Slayer connection to Faith is going haywire with scattered, mismatched emotions. Whatever Faith is doing, she’s feeling a _lot_ at the moment, and Buffy needs to be there for her, needs to help.

“I’m done,” Buffy says, throwing her hands in the air. “We’ll deal with this some other time, when Xander’s pulled his head out of his butt, or at least gets it dislodged from the bottom of his throat.” Ignoring the clamor of her friends calling after her, Buffy storms out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you follow me on tumblr, i've mentioned a number of times that i'm planning on fixing xander in this fic. that is true. however, he has a very long way to go. i hope you liked this chapter; getting to bring in anya felt So good you have no idea.
> 
> i'm on tumblr @daisys-quake and on twitter @thoughtsintoink; i love hearing from people so feel free to message me! leave a comment and kudos if you enjoyed :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, hello. it has been like a six years (a month and a half? two months? i have no sense of time man), and there are a lot of reasons for that as well as a lot of other stuff to discuss, so bear with me.
> 
> first of all: why it's taken me so long to get another chapter out. real life complications and other fics i've been working on both contributed, as well as a serious lack of motivation (more on that later), but maybe the biggest reason is because i've had to do a lot of replanning.
> 
> for context: on the last chapter, as well as in my dms on twitter and tumblr, several people have raised concerns regarding my treatment of xander, as well as my possible handling of faith's sexually assaulting him in 'consequences'. i will be the first to admit that i cannot fucking stand xander in canon. i'm taking a different route with his character arc in this fic than canon did; hopefully it satisfies both xander fans and my fellow xander detractors.
> 
> that said, the moral issues brought up by the people who commented/messaged me are both valid and extremely important. if you were one of the people who politely brought it up, i appreciate it. i've done a lot of course corrections on my outlines over the past month or two, which did delay this chapter quite a bit, but hopefully improved the fic as a whole.
> 
> second order of business: certain individuals seem to be under the impression that gay fanfiction posted for free on the internet should be subject to the same levels of rigorous criticism and revision as a goddamn dissertation. this is not the case. if you don't like how i'm writing this fic, good news! most browsers come pre-equipped with a back button!
> 
> use it.
> 
> there's probably more i'm forgetting, but c'est la vie. with all that out of the way, onto the chapter. it's been long enough. trigger warning for discussion of sexual assault in this chapter.
> 
> thanks to [rippergiles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rippergiles) for beta reading!

The dorm room door closes behind Buffy with a click. She exhales at the noise, long, slow, and disappointed.

“Hey.” Buffy turns around. Willow is sitting on her bed in her pajamas, a book in her lap. The overhead lights are still on.

“Were you waiting up for me?” Buffy says. She walks over to her own bed, kicking off her shoes on the way.

“We sorta have stuff to talk about.” Willow has a point, but instead of answering, Buffy just groans, collapsing face first onto her mattress. “What did Faith say?”

“Don’t know,” Buffy says, her voice muffled. “Didn’t catch her.”

“And that doesn’t worry you?” Willow’s voice has a familiar anxious note, and reluctantly, Buffy sits up and looks at her. “Faith just wandering around out there doing—I don’t know, doing _anything_?”

“No,” Buffy says. “It doesn’t. Look, Wil, you haven’t—she’s been around a couple weeks now, and she’s changed a lot. You haven’t seen that yet, but you will. She’s on our side again.”

“She told you that?” Willow asks.

“She _proved_ that,” Buffy says. “You saw her kill that demon earlier.”

“That doesn’t prove anything.” Willow kicks away her blankets, sets down her book, slides out of bed, and begins to pace. “She likes killing things, so what?”

“She killed that demon to help you guys,” Buffy says. “He wasn’t her problem.”

“Why was she in the house in the first place?”

“I don’t _know_.” Buffy runs a hand through her hair and closes her eyes. She’s exhausted, and she really needs to brush her teeth. She can still taste the rot that the-thing-that-wasn’t-Faith left in her mouth. “I can’t ask her because I can’t _find_ her.” Buffy forces herself to her feet, going to the closet to put away her costume. “Why are you all jumpy about this? I thought you understood. You _helped_ Faith, back when she woke up. She isn’t hiding from the cops right now because of you.”

“I know,” Willow says, stopping her pacing to cross her arms. “But, Buffy, I just…I didn’t think she was ever coming _back_.”

“So…what?” Buffy shakes her head incredulously. “You were okay with her as long as she wasn’t here?”

“Yeah, pretty much!” Willow throws her hands up helplessly. “When she was gone and you were talking about giving her a second chance, it all made sense! But now she’s back, and when I looked at her, I saw the girl who hurt Xander, hurt me, hurt _you_ , and I just—I can’t help it. I can’t help it, Buffy. I’m afraid of her.” Buffy drops her gaze to the ground.

“That’s not what I see when I look at her,” she says softly.

“I know,” Willow says. “And I trust you, which is the _only_ reason I haven’t tracked her down and done… _something_. But you can’t ask me to trust _her_. I feel bad for the way we treated her, but I can’t look at her and not think about everything she did to us.”

“I know.” Buffy sits down on the edge of her bed and rests her face in her hands. She rubs at her eyes in exhaustion. “God, I know. I don’t even know why _I_ trust her.” As soon as she speaks the words, she knows they’re not true. “That’s a lie, I do.” Willow crosses the room, sitting down next to Buffy and wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “She’s so _different_ , Willow. She’s still her, but…I don’t know. She bakes, now, did you know that? And laughs a lot, but not in a mean way anymore, and she smiles…I don’t know. Differently. She still gets dark sometimes but—she’s just—“ Buffy can’t finish the thought, can’t find the right words. Willow squeezes Buffy’s shoulders.

“Why’d she come back?” Willow asks, instead of responding to Buffy’s garbled explanation. Buffy can’t blame her; it wasn’t exactly coherent.

“There’s a prophecy,” Buffy says. Willow tenses next to her. Buffy leans her head on Willow’s shoulder. “Relax,” she says. “It’s not a bad one. No death, it hasn’t started yet, and we’re going to win.”

“We always do,” Willow says. “And there’s two good Slayers again, apparently. That can’t hurt.” Buffy hums in agreement, closing her eyes. _God_ , she’s tired. “Hey, Buffy?”

“Yeah?”

“Shouldn’t someone be…I don’t know, keeping an eye on Faith? Once she shows up again? I know you said she’s good and all but—“

“No, I get it,” Buffy interrupts. “Better safe than sorry. But, uh, there’s already an eye on Faith?” It comes out as a question, and she winces. Willow isn’t going to like this at all. “A, um, a very close, Mom-shaped eye on Faith.” Willow says nothing, processing, and Buffy clarifies, “She’s living at my house. With my mom.” Willow scoots away, and Buffy nearly falls over before righting herself and sitting up.

“Is that safe?” Willow says anxiously. “Just leaving her with your mom, with no supervision or precautions or anything?”

“It is,” Buffy says without hesitation. “Wil, I never told you this, but over the summer…Faith called me.”

“She _what_?”

“She called me.” Willow shakes her head, mouth opening and closing soundlessly. “She, um, she basically just said she was getting better, and that she was gonna keep trying. This whole good-Faith thing, she didn’t just—show up again and decide to be good now, and she’s not lying. It’s _been_ happening, for awhile.”

“Unless she was lying to you then, too,” Willow points out. Buffy shakes her head firmly.

“She wasn’t.” Willow still looks suspicious. “I trust her, alright, Wil? My mom said Faith apologized to her the first night she was back, and she’s talked to me a little bit about stuff, too. It’s just bits and pieces she gives me, but…if you heard the stuff she’s told me about, you would believe her, too. I trust her. She’s better now.”

“You know, maybe Xander has a point,” Willow says after a long moment.

“What?” Buffy shakes her head, eyes narrowing in confusion and hurt.

“Not about killing Faith, or beating her up, or whatever,” Willow says. “But—you’re putting a lot of, well, _faith_ in Faith. Maybe more than she deserves.”

“Maybe,” Buffy says. “But she’s—“ Buffy cuts herself off. _She’s worth it_. It feels like too much, somehow, to say it out loud, so she keeps it in, repeats it in her head. _She’s worth it_.

“Speaking of Xander,” Willow says, seeming content to let the abbreviated sentence slide in favor of a more pressing issue. “You need to apologize to him. The stuff you said to him wasn’t okay.” Buffy sighs, pressing down on her eyes with the heels of her hands.

“I know,” she says. “I know. But I’m gonna bask in the shame for a couple days before I do.” She doesn’t think she can look Xander in the eye right now. He has _every_ right to be upset, to be scared and confused, and she had no right to attack him for not going to college—she knows his grade situation, his financial situation. None of it is his fault, and none of it means _anything_ in the face of their friendship. What’s more, the stuff she’d said about him not contributing—he’s saved her goddamn _life_ before, and risked his own a dozen times over helping her. Buffy groans and slides her hands down, covering her face. “I’m an asshole,” she says, her voice muffled by her fingers.

“No, you’re not.” Willow slides closer, bumping their shoulders together. “He knows you didn’t mean that stuff.” She hesitates, and Buffy knows she’s remembering just how well she knows Xander, as well as his tendency to doubt his own value and the love of his friends. Buffy had really hit him in every one of his biggest insecurities.

_God, I_ suck.

“Well, I’ll tell him you didn’t mean that stuff,” Willow says. “While you’re—basking.”

“Thanks, Wil,” Buffy says. “Are we good?”

“Always,” Willow says. Taking a deep, steadying breath, Buffy lifts her head from her hands.

“Can you call around and organize a Scooby meeting at Giles’s tomorrow?” she says. “I’m going to go look for Faith more.”

“Sure.” Willow stands up off the bed, and Buffy follows suit. “Meeting to catch everyone up on the Faith situation?”

“And the prophecy,” Buffy says. Willow nods, and Buffy manages a weak, but genuine, smile. She steps forward and hugs Willow tightly.

“Love you,” she mumbles into Willow’s shoulder. Willow squeezes her tightly.

“Love you, too,” Willow says. “Now go. Find Faith.” Buffy lets her go, grabbing one of her jackets from the floor and shrugging it on. There’s already a stake in the sleeve, and with a final grin at Willow, Buffy leaves the room, setting back out to look for Faith.

* * *

Faith doesn’t run. She wants to. She wants to start running the minute she walks out the door of the frat house, wants to keep on running. She wants to run all the way back to New Mexico, back to Roberts and the bakery, back to early mornings and desert sunsets and not having to kill things only to be afraid of how good it feels to have undead flesh shredding apart under her fists.

(Mostly, she just wants to run away from Buffy.)

Instead, Faith walks, anger pounding a headache into the inside of her forehead. She can practically _hear_ Roberts saying _anger is a secondary emotion, Faith. Figure out what’s behind it and you can make it go away_. She _knows_ what’s behind it. The voice of the fake vampire Buffy is still whispering in her ears, asking _this is what you always wanted, isn’t it_?

It was. It is. Fake Buffy had been right, and Faith can’t make _that_ go away.

Before she knows it, Faith is walking up the driveway to the house. She hadn’t asked her feet to take her here, but here they had taken her all the same. She had wanted somewhere safe. Roberts was too far away, and subconsciously, she had picked Joyce as the next best thing.

There’s some kind of irony there, Faith thinks. The house of the girl she had tried to kill has become her safe place. The mother of the girl who had tried to kill her has become her safe _person_.

“Faith?” Joyce is halfway up the stairs when Faith comes in the door. She turns, looking back down at Faith. She’s dressed for bed, wrapped up in a robe, and she looks…Faith wants to call it concern, but she’s not sure that’s right. No one but Roberts has ever been concerned about her, and he isn’t exactly an expressive man. She’s not sure what it would look like on anyone else.

“Hey, Mrs. S,” Faith says, trying for a grin and hoping it doesn’t come out as dangerous as she feels right now. “Sorry I’m late.”

“That’s fine,” Joyce says, turning more fully around and frowning at Faith. “Are you alright? You seem…” Faith sighs and drops the smile.

“I’m fine,” she says. Joyce raises her eyebrows and says nothing, waiting for Faith to correct herself. It’s an expectant look, a _tell the truth, young lady_ look. “I’m _going_ to be fine,” Faith says, amending her previous statement. “I’m just pissed off. It’s late, I can explain in the morning.”

“Okay.” Joyce is still looking at her, but it’s that concern again, instead of the expectant look. “I’m here for you, Faith. You know that, right? You can talk to me. Even if it’s about Buffy. I’m a neutral party. Think of me as Switzerland.”

“Should you be neutral towards your own daughter?” Faith says. Joyce shrugs.

“The parenting books would probably say no,” she says. “But someone has to be objective here, and it’s not going to be you two.” Faith flinches slightly. She knows what Joyce means, the history of blood and fighting she’s referring to, but she can’t help but remember the feeling of not-Buffy’s lips on her neck.

_This is what you always wanted, isn’t it_?

“Yeah,” Faith says, clearing her throat. “Probably not either one of us.” Joyce smiles at her. “But, uh, yeah, I know you’re here for me. It…means a lot.”

“Good night, Faith.” Joyce turns back to the stairs.

“Wait!” Joyce turns around again. “Can I—call someone? I have…a friend back in New Mexico. I’ll be quiet, I promise, I just—it would help me calm down.”

“Of course,” Joyce says. “Good night, Faith.”

“Good night.” Joyce turns away and makes her way up the stairs and out of sight. It’s only after she disappears that Faith realizes she had never said anything about Buffy. Joyce had just known what was wrong.

_Smart lady_ , Faith thinks. _Like daughter, like mother_. But then, what _else_ would Faith be upset about? Who else has the sort of power over her that Buffy does?

Faith picks up the phone off the wall and dials. She has three numbers memorized now—Buffy’s, Roberts’, and her own, the one for the cell phone that sits in her bag upstairs. Roberts had given it to her in case of emergency, told her to call if she needed _anything_ , any time, anything at all.

As the line rings, Faith wonders briefly what time it is in New Mexico. It’s nearly midnight in Sunnydale; it must be almost one in the morning there. Roberts is probably asleep, getting in a scant few more hours before waking up at four to get to work.

“ _Hello?_ ” Faith starts slightly at the voice on the other end of the line. She hadn’t, she realizes, really expected a response, regardless of the time. Roberts had told her, over and over, that he would always be there for her, but he’s not the first to have told her that, and no one’s kept their word before.

Roberts, though, is in the business of proving Faith wrong.

“What are you doing up?” Faith says. “Don’t you have work in like three hours?”

“ _Faith_ ,” Roberts says, an amused note in his smooth tone. “ _I appreciate the concern, but I’m doing research. Besides, I could ask the same of you_.”

“Research,” Faith echoes. “I, um, I guess I just…needed to talk to someone. But you need to sleep, so—“

“ _Faith_.” The amusement has turned into a gentle firmness now, warm and affectionate but unmoving. “ _Talk to me_.” Faith leans against the wall, running her free hand down her face. She’s tired. She hadn’t noticed that before, but _God_ , she’s tired.

“Okay,” she says. “Okay, um.” She doesn’t want to talk about that night. She doesn’t really _want_ to talk, ever, though she knows she needs to, but not about that night, not yet. Not about vampire Buffy, or the feeling of teeth in her neck, or, later, the scared, uncertain looks in all of Buffy’s friends’ eyes.

(Xander had wanted to _stake_ her. She’s not even sure what she _did_ to Xander to make him hate her so intensely, so personally. It was convenient to blame it on his jealousy over Buffy, but the look in his eyes in that frat house…Faith shivers. It might’ve been hate, it might’ve been anger, it might’ve been fear. The three, Faith has learned, aren’t really that different at all.)

“I haven’t told Buffy the last line of the prophecy,” Faith says, choosing to confess a secret she understands. Roberts exhales on the other end of the line, a quiet puff of static echoing in her ear.

“ _Do you think that’s wise?_ ” he says. Faith laughs quietly.

“I think it’s necessary.” She sits down on the floor beneath the phone, the curling cord stretching above her head up to its hook on the wall. “We’ve got enough shit between us to sort out already without— _that_ hanging over our heads.” Roberts says nothing. “Do you think I _should_ tell her?” Faith asks.

“ _That depends_ ,” Roberts says. “ _Has your decision changed?_ ”

“No,” Faith answers without hesitation, without a hint of uncertainty. “And it’s not going to.” Roberts doesn’t speak for awhile. Faith closes her eyes, straining her Slayer hearing against the restraints of the tinny microphone, listening for the familiar sounds of the apartment above the bakery—the ticking of the old clock in the living room, the endless creaking of the old pipes, the groaning of the springs in the old couch. She misses it. More than anything, she misses that apartment—the warmth, the serenity, the smell of fresh bread that seems to have sunk permanently into the walls from the shop below, and most of all, Roberts’ steady, silent presence, all open ears and quiet voice.

“ _I’m not often an irrational man_ ,” Roberts says after a while. “ _But indulge me for a minute here. I can’t help but feel like this is my fault, that I’ve sent you to—_ “

“Roberts,” Faith interrupts. She knows what he’s going to say, and she doesn’t want to hear those words in his voice, with that awful guilty tone. “It’s not your fault. This is—it’s how it’s supposed to be. This is my redemption, you know? This is how I fix it. This is how I—“ She cuts herself off.

_This is how I get Buffy to care about me again_.

“ _It’s not._ ” Roberts sounds almost _angry_. “ _Redemption is not about_ pain _, Faith. It’s about the good we do, not the price we pay_.”

“Not for everyone,” Faith says. “Not for me.”

“ _Don’t flatter yourself_ ,” Roberts says. “ _The moral laws of the universe don’t bend to accommodate your self-loathing_.” That makes Faith laugh.

“Maybe not,” she says. “But either way, I’ve made up my mind. That’s not on you, old man, and it’s not _about_ you. Don’t try to take the blame.”

“ _I know it’s not on me_ ,” Roberts grumbles. “ _You’re too damn_ stubborn _for it to be my fault_.”

“And don’t you forget it.” Faith lets her head rest against the wall behind her. She already feels better with Roberts’ voice in her ear, listening and guiding and never, never judging. More than that, though, she feels better thinking about the prophecy. It makes things easier for her. She knows where this is going, where it’s all going to end. She doesn’t have to worry about everything from here to there. It’s the last stop—it doesn’t matter if she sleeps through the ride, because someone will wake her up at the end.

“ _How are you and Buffy?_ ” Roberts says, breaking Faith out of her thoughts. Faith half sighs, half groans.

“We’re…” She searches for the words. “It’s…a lot, I guess. Sometimes it’s like nothing ever went wrong, and sometimes it’s…” Faith sighs again. “I want to be good for her, you know? I want to be…I want to be what she wants from me.”  
“ _Faith…_ ” Faith can picture the concerned, pained look on Roberts’ face. “ _You’re not doing this for her. You want to change,_ change _. But not for her, not for me, not because of the prophecy. Change for_ you _. So you can be proud of who you are and what you’ve done._ ” Faith says nothing, and Roberts sighs heavily, letting it go for now.

“Me and her…I don’t even know where to start,” Faith says, deciding to talk about Buffy both to avoid the subject of her own issues and because she always wants to talk about Buffy. “I always had it bad for her, you know that. At first it was just…I was just crazy about her, more than I’d ever been for anyone. It felt like magic, I guess from the Slayer connection or something. We’d fight together, patrol together, hang out sometimes, and I thought I was gonna die sometimes when I made her laugh.” Faith blows out a breath. “And then after I killed Finch, everything got so fucked up between us. It all went to hell, and still, all I wanted in the world was for her to look at me like she looked at Angel. I just wanted to make her smile, y’know?” Roberts doesn’t speak, giving Faith silent permission to keep rambling, which she gladly takes. “And now it seems like we’re just starting to get back to where we were before, and it’s all still there, you know? It’s all…” Faith trails off. Everything she ever felt for Buffy—the desire, the rage, the desperation—it’s all still sitting in her chest, rotting and aching and filling her mouth with a cloying, awful sweetness. Faith doesn’t know if she loves or hates the taste.

“ _And will you get back, do you think?_ ” Roberts asks. “ _To where you two were before?_ ” Faith hesitates. It’s a loaded question, and she hears footsteps on the front porch before she gets the chance to answer.

“Think I’m about to find out,” she says. “Gotta go. Get some sleep, old man, before your back gives out.”

“ _Love you, too, Faith_.” The line clicks and a dial tone sounds. Faith stands, replacing the phone on the wall just as the front door opens. It’s Buffy. She hurries into the kitchen as soon as she sees Faith, but she comes to a hesitant stop once she’s inside the kitchen, eyes flickering around the room warily.

“Hey,” Faith says, the leftover peace in her chest from talking to Roberts granting her the strength to speak calmly.

“Um,” Buffy says. “Hey.” She says nothing else, simply staring at Faith uncertainly until Faith shifts in place uncomfortably.

“You come here for a reason?” she asks, raising her eyebrows.

“Uh,” Buffy says, and Faith rolls her eyes, but lets it go.

“You hungry?” she asks, stepping over to the refrigerator and tugging it open.

“Sure,” Buffy says, stepping up beside her. Faith is hyperaware of her proximity, of the fact that she can feel Buffy at her side. She isn’t sure if the way her heartbeat picks up is from adrenaline, an automatic fight-or-flight response, or—something else entirely. “Does Mom still keep those yogurts around?” Faith reaches into the fridge, pulling out a yogurt and handing it to Buffy.

“Not low-fat anymore,” Faith says, smirking, and the way Buffy flushes tells her that Buffy remembers _that_ particular conversation. “Hope that still…satisfies.”

“Shut up.” Buffy tugs the yogurt open and, not bothering with a spoon, tips her head back and drinks it.

“Damn, B.” Faith grins. “I’m guessing you were just out slaying?” Buffy lowers her head, setting the empty yogurt container on the countertop.

“Killed a vamp on the way here,” she says. Her blush hasn’t faded. “The, um, hungry and horny thing. You were—you were right.”

Faith snorts and says, “Yeah, I know.”

“You know why it bothered me so much?” Buffy says. Faith crosses her arms and looks at Buffy.

“I don’t know. I kinda figured it was because you were repressed and uptight.”

“I’m not—“ Buffy stops, and Faith raises her eyebrows. Buffy looks away and takes a deep breath. “Look, can you not…call me that? It sounds like something Parker would say and I—“ She cuts herself off.

“Parker?” Faith says, frowning. “Who’s—“

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Buffy doesn’t snap, exactly, but her words are harsh enough to make her wince as she says them. “I’m not—I don’t want to get into it.”

“Sure,” Faith says, sensing that the friendly, teasing moment is over. They always seem to end so quickly. “Whatever you want, B.” She grabs Buffy’s empty yogurt container and steps past her to throw it away. Their shoulders brush as she steps past, and the contact feels less like the tantalizing almost-touch of earlier and more like the old, familiar violence that defined their relationship—and maybe still does.

(After that night in the frat house, Faith isn’t too sure.)

_We need her_ , Buffy had said. For what, exactly, Faith isn’t sure. The prophecy, sure, but beyond that? More efficient slaying? More time off for Buffy? As the handy murderer if they want a human killed and don’t want to lower themselves to Faith’s level?

“Hey, so the real reason the hungry and horny thing bothered me,” Buffy says, trying and failing to recapture the lightness of only moments before. “It’s true, obviously. I just—the others weren’t supposed to know, you know? They’ve slayed before, sure, but it’s—they’re not _Slayers_. That’s mine. All the—extra stuff it brings with it, I didn’t tell them because I didn’t want them to know. I wanted it to be…just mine. And then you showed up and it was gonna be just ours. I didn’t want you to tell them. I love them, but they’re not like me. Like us.”

Faith says nothing. Instead, she walks over to the dishwasher, where the light signifying that it’s finished running is illuminated. Joyce will appreciate them being put away in the morning, and fighting with dishes is easier emotional territory than fighting with Buffy.

“And I guess me being back in town is on the list of Slayer secrets we don’t tell your friends about, too.” Easy emotional territory be damned, apparently; Faith’s mouth has decided to speak before she can think.

“That’s not fair,” Buffy says, and Faith _hates_ the way she knows it’s true. “What was I supposed to tell them?” Faith looks up at her reflection in the window above the sink. Maybe it’s just the shadowy nature of the reflection, but she looks tired. Her eyes look sunken. The way they used to, before Roswell, before she got better.

“How about, ‘hey gang, Faith is back.’ Or, ‘Faith isn’t evil anymore so please don’t kill her if you see her’. Or literally _anything_ , B, so I don’t have to save your ass and wonder if Xander’s gonna try to stake me for my troubles.” Faith looks back down at the dishwasher, which she’s opened but yet to touch.

“How do you think they would’ve taken that?” Buffy says. “They don’t trust you.”

“And this is so much better?” Faith demands, looking at Buffy in the reflection in the window. “Having me just show up out of nowhere? Yeah, Xander took it _so well_. Great plan, B.”

“What do you want me to _do_?” Buffy says, her voice rising. “I can’t make my friends trust you. I can barely get them to trust _me_ at this point!” Her voice cracks, and Faith turns to face her.

“They don’t trust you?” she says. Buffy looks away, crossing her arms.

“They—they trust me,” she says. “Sort of. They think I’m—confused. About you. That I’m trusting you too much. That—I don’t know. That…” She trails off.

“Do you?” Faith says. Buffy blinks at her blankly. “Trust me. Do you?”

“I’m letting you live in my house, with my mom, without any kind of protection for her,” Buffy says.

“That’s not an answer.” Faith leans against the counter, resting the heels of her hands on the edge of it, waiting for a response. It’s not immediately forthcoming. Buffy refuses to meet Faith’s eyes for awhile, looking at the walls, the floor, the window.

“I don’t know,” she says eventually. “I—I do, I mean. I just—I don’t know if I trust _me_ to trust _you_.”

“You wanna run that by me again?” Faith says, raising her eyebrows. Buffy half-smiles, rubbing at the back of her neck sheepishly.

“I trust you,” she says again. “But…I don’t think I should. Every minute, I’m just—waiting. For you to do something wrong. To know I screwed up.” She looks directly at Faith for the first time in a few minutes. “I don’t want to be wrong, Faith.”

“I don’t want you to be, either.” Faith’s words are quiet and sincere, and she immediately follows them with a bitter laugh, trying to wash the taste of honesty from her mouth, to clear the air of its sound. “ _Fuck_ , what a shitshow, huh?” Buffy smiles, fully this time, and nods.

“I don’t know,” she says. “Maybe I could’ve done better with telling them. I just—I don’t think there _are_ any good choices here. Just, like, a wide range of shades of bad.”

* * *

Faith gets to the meeting late.

Buffy had convinced her to go last night, before she went back to her dorm room. Faith hadn’t wanted to. She doesn’t think it will make a difference if she sits in Giles’ living room and plays nice with Willow and Xander and Oz—they’ll still hate her, she still won’t like them. But Buffy had seemed hopeful, and Faith—Faith is getting worse at saying no to her.

Faith doesn’t bother knocking. Either they’re waiting for her or she’ll get sniped with a crossbow the moment she walks in the door; either way, there’s no point in delaying the inevitable. So she walks right up to the door of Giles’ apartment, pulls it open, and steps inside.

Willow is sitting in Oz’s lap in an armchair. Xander is on the couch. Giles is at the back of the room next to Buffy. All of them turn to look at Faith the moment she walks in.

“What?” Faith snaps after a moment of silence, crossing her arms. It’s a protective gesture, a defensive one, but she’s hoping it comes off as intimidating. “Waiting for me to turn into a unicorn or something?” Giles clears his throat, stepping forwards to address her.

“Faith,” he says. “Buffy has told us that there’s some sort of prophecy?” _Right down to business, I guess_. Faith is fine with that. She doesn’t particularly want to make small talk with Giles, or anyone else in the room.

“Sure is,” Faith says. She glances at Buffy, who gives her what’s probably meant to be an encouraging smile, but comes off as more of a grimace. “You wanna hear it?”

“We’re not here for the company,” Xander says from the couch, his voice sharp and angry. Faith barely stops herself from rolling her eyes at him.

“Alright,” she says, returning his glare as she begins to recite it. “By the order of the First Son, The Forsaken Ones shall be free of their cages. The sky shall fall to endless night until the last Slayer rises against him.” She quiets, and everyone stares at her. “What?” she says, looking around the room. Buffy is the only one not visibly confused. “Problem?”

“Not exactly,” Giles says. “Just—that was quite short.”

“And vague,” Oz notes from his chair. “Lots of foreboding titles and metaphors, and not a whole lot of prediction.”

“Guess the ancient prophecy guys of wherever weren’t too big on step-by-step instructions,” Willow says, half to Oz and half to the room as a whole.

“Not that ancient, actually,” Buffy says. “Faith heard it from a seer over the summer.” That turns everyone’s attention back to Faith, and she shifts uncomfortably under the renewed staring. She shoots a glare at Buffy, though Buffy doesn’t seem to notice. It’s not rational, maybe, the way Faith wants to keep Roberts, Roswell, all the details of her summer a secret, but she wants to all the same, and here Buffy is, spilling the details to an entire room full of people who hate Faith.

“A seer?” Giles asks, a curious note in his voice that Faith remembers vaguely as his research tone. “What sort?”

“The future-seeing variety?” Faith shrugs. “Hell if I know, man.” Giles makes an unsatisfied noise.

“Perhaps if you can give me some details about this seer’s powers?” he asks, already going over to his bookshelf. “Whether they run in the family, or—“

“Okay, are we all just high today or something?” Much to Faith’s utter lack of surprise, it’s Xander interrupting. “Why are any of you listening to _her_ —“ he points at Faith. “—or believing _anything_ she has to say?”

“Xander—“ Buffy begins.

“No,” Faith interrupts. She’s annoyed, certainly, but— “He has a point.”

“Yeah, I do!” Xander says, before realizing just who’s agreeing with him. “Wait a second.”

“None of you should trust me,” Faith continues, ignoring Xander. “None of you _do_ , let’s be honest here. So you can either not trust me and ignore the prophecy and get yourselves killed, or you can pretend to trust me long enough for me to save your sorry asses. Your choice.” The room is silent. Xander still looks a bizarre combination of angry and utterly confused. Finally, Giles speaks.

“Perhaps if you can put me into contact with this seer, we can learn more about this prophecy and where it came from.” Faith hesitates. She doesn’t want Roberts involved in this, involved in anything from Sunnydale or from Faith’s old life. He’s already accepted so much from her, refused to judge her for anything she’s told him. But if he hears it directly from the people she hurt…Faith can’t let that happen. She doesn’t know what she would do once he left, and she can’t imagine he would stand by her after that.

“Two conditions,” Faith says. “One, I call him for you, I’m there the whole time you’re talking. Two, you don’t get him involved in this.”

“This?” Giles says.

“Any of this.” Faith gestures around the room. “Any part of Sunnydale’s annual shitstorm. He stays where he is. You get the prophecy from him, and then you never contact him again. He doesn’t get dragged into your little Scooby gang, or whatever apocalypse is coming, or whatever the next one is after that. Alright?”

“Deal,” Buffy says immediately. Everyone looks at her, and she crosses her arms, raising an eyebrow, daring anyone to challenge her. “Deal,” she repeats, more firmly. “Any objections?”

“Many,” Xander says.

“One or two,” Willow agrees.

“Overruled,” Buffy says.

“That doesn’t seem very democratic,” Oz notes. His voice, at least, is neutral, and Faith counts that as a small victory. Buffy lets out a frustrated sigh.

“B,” Faith says, drawing Buffy’s attention back to her. “It’s whatever. They’re not gonna be cool with me, we can deal with it after we stop the world from ending.” She looks between Willow and Xander. “Any objections to _that_?” Finally, no one speaks up. “Giles, I can call the seer for you on Monday, alright?” The bakery is closed on Mondays; Roberts won’t be busy. Besides, that gives Faith the weekend to call Roberts and explain the situation to him.

“I suppose,” Giles says, frowning slightly at the delay but not questioning it.

“Great,” Faith says, clapping her hands. “Great seeing you all, great getting threatened and yelled at. Let’s not do it again. Ever.” With that, she turns around and pulls open the apartment door, stepping back out into the sunlight.

* * *

“Are you nuts?” Xander says the moment the door to Giles’ apartment shuts, turning to Buffy.

“I’m going to have to respectfully second that,” Giles says, a reluctant note in his voice. “She didn’t…seem particularly reformed, Buffy.”

“I’m sure,” Buffy says firmly. “She’s better, she’s just—“ She shakes her head. “I think you guys scared her.”

“Scared _her_?” Xander says incredulously. “She’s the serial killer here.”

“She’s not a—“ Buffy clenches her jaw, glaring at Xander. “Why do you hate her so much, anyway?”

“Why do I hate her?” Xander repeats. “Oh, I don’t know, she tried to kill us all!”

“Yeah, but this?” Buffy gestures at Xander, at his clenched fists and angry scowl. “This is clearly personal for you. So what? What’s your damage?” Xander says nothing. An angry, pink flush begins to work its way up his neck, but he clenches his jaw shut in silence.

“He has the right to be upset, Buffy,” Willow says quietly from her spot in Oz’s lap, and Buffy closes her eyes, nodding slowly.

“I know,” she says. “I know.” She opens her eyes, looking at Xander. “But whatever your issue is, you’re gonna have to set it aside for awhile. I don’t know about you, but the _sky falling to endless night_ doesn’t sound like a bag of laughs, and we need Faith to stop that from happening.” Xander holds her gaze for a moment, and Buffy tries to see past the veneer of anger in his eyes, racks her brain trying to think of something that Faith has done to leave him not only so angry, but so _afraid_. Then Xander stands abruptly, breaking their eye contact.

“Whatever,” he mutters. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Buffy.” With that, he walks away, out of the apartment.

“We should go, too,” Willow says, slipping off of Oz’s lap and standing up.

“I’ll meet you outside,” Oz says to Willow. She gives him an odd look, but nods, and leaves the apartment. Oz turns to Buffy, giving her one of his reassuring, mysterious half-smiles.

“She does seem different,” he says, and Buffy feels some of the tension and fear leave her chest. _I’m not crazy. Someone else sees it, too_. Buffy’s mother seems to see in Faith what Buffy does, but it’s…reassuring, for Buffy to know that one of her friends seems to understand, too.

“ _Thank you_ ,” Buffy says, exhaling. Oz’s half-smile grows into a full one.

“You’re welcome,” he says. “I’ll see you around, Buffy.” Buffy nods, and Oz leaves the apartment as well, leaving Buffy alone with Giles.

“I’ll be blunt for a moment,” Giles says without preamble. Buffy turns to look at him. “Do you really, completely, truly believe that Faith has changed?”

“Absolutely.” Buffy doesn’t let herself think about it or worry over her words. In her gut, she believes it, even if her mind is a bit hesitant to listen to her instincts. Giles nods, adjusting his glasses on his nose.

“I won’t patronize you by telling you how dangerous she is,” he says. “You’re an adult, and you’re fully aware of the risks you’re taking.” Buffy nods, and he offers her a small smile. “At the end of the day, I trust your judgment. If this is what you know to be right, I’ll stand behind you.”

“Thank you,” Buffy says, and Giles nods in acknowledgement. “What do you think I should do about Xander?” Giles sighs heavily.

“Honestly, Buffy? I have no idea.” He takes his glasses off, rubbing at his eyes. “Whatever’s bothering him, it seems that it isn’t going away. If it were anyone else, I would suggest you simply ask him, and work through whatever the problem is. But Xander…”

“He’s not going to talk about his feelings,” Buffy finishes. She groans with frustration. “I just want them to get along,” she says. “Or at least not, like, actively hate each other.”

“Someday,” Giles says. “We can hope.” Buffy smiles, and, on impulse, steps forward and hugs him. Giles freezes up for a moment before wrapping his arms around her in return.

“Thank you,” Buffy says into his chest.

“For what?” Giles asks as Buffy steps away. Buffy shrugs.

“For being on my side.” Giles squeezes her shoulder reassuringly.

“I am _always_ on your side.” Buffy smiles at him. His own affectionate smile fades after a moment. “Buffy…as I said, I won’t caution you about Faith, but…I only hope you’re prepared to be disappointed.” Buffy looks away for a moment, biting her lip.

“I am,” she says. “I know…what could happen. She might betray me, I know that, and I’m ready for it.” Giles nods somberly. “But, Giles…I really, really want this to go right this time.”

“As do I,” Giles says. “I’m only saying this because I know how much you wanted to help Faith last time, and I don’t want you to be hurt that badly again.”

“I won’t be,” Buffy says. “She’s going to do better this time, Giles. I believe in her.”

* * *

Faith pushes the door to the UC Sunnydale pub open with an arm tense with frustration. The meeting with Buffy’s friends had, in retrospect, gone about as well as she could expect, but it still left her with a bitter taste in her mouth and anger in her bones.

Faith heads straight to the bar in the middle of the pub, tapping on the countertop to get the attention of the bartender, who is cleaning glasses, facing away from the room. He turns at the sound, and Faith can barely stop herself from punching the bar in frustration.

_This is exactly what I do_ not _need right now._

“What are _you_ doing here?” Xander asks, his tone unsurprisingly hostile.

“Getting drunk,” Faith snaps.

“You’re not twenty-one,” Xander says, shaking his head. “Get out.”

“You’re not twenty-one, either,” Faith says. “How’d you get this job? Fake I.D.?” Xander glares at her, but says nothing, and Faith knows she’s guessed correctly. “Give me a fucking drink, or I’ll report you.”

“If you do that, I’ll tell Buffy you got me fired,” Xander says, and Faith snorts derisively.

“What are you, eight years old?” she asks. “Gonna tell on me?” Xander grits his teeth, but doesn’t rise to the bait. He points to his left wordlessly. Faith follows his arm with her gaze. On the wall behind the bar, a sign proclaims, “We reserve the right to refuse service to anyone”. Faith rolls her eyes, but gives in. It’s not worth her time to fight with Xander, and besides, she’s not in the mood to argue. She’s in the mood to get very, very drunk.

“Whatever,” Faith mutters, turning away from the bar. She raises her middle finger over her shoulder as she heads for the door, unable to resist the urge. If Xander responds, it’s drowned out by the particularly rowdy group of customers Faith passes in the corner of the pub. They’re absolutely _wasted_ , and Faith rolls her eyes as she passes, picking up threads of their conversation, or what seems to be passing for conversation.

“Beer _good_ ,” one of them proclaims, to a chorus of grunted agreement.

Faith _really_ hates frat boys.

Faith slips out of the pub and into the evening sunlight outside. The sun isn’t quite down yet, but it’s getting there. Faith’s shadow is absurdly long at her feet.

“Faith?” Faith looks off to her right, and there’s Buffy. Faith feels a little light-headed, looking at her in the dusk. The orange sunlight brings out the warm tones in Buffy’s hair, turns her skin golden, and Faith is— “What are you doing here?”

“Trying to get drunk,” Faith says, shaking herself out of her daze. “But your buddy in there won’t sell to me.” Belatedly, she wonders if Buffy is aware of Xander’s job and its questionable-at-best legality, but Buffy nods in understanding.

“That was my plan, too,” she says. “The getting drunk, I mean.” Faith raises her eyebrows.

“Buffy Summers, getting drunk?” she says. “Won’t that smear your whole good-girl, pure-of-heart image?” Buffy rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling just a bit at Faith’s teasing tone.

“Shut up,” she says. “Listen, do you wanna maybe do the whole binge drinking thing together? It’s less sad that way.” Faith hesitates for a moment, wondering if she trusts herself enough to be drunk around Buffy. But she’s an angry drunk, usually, not an emotional one, so she nods.

“One condition,” she says. “We don’t go anywhere your friends work.” Buffy hesitates.

“I want to say yes,” she says. “But I don’t know anywhere else that would sell to me. I don’t have a fake I.D.” Faith snorts.

“I don’t have any kind of I.D.,” she says. “Don’t need it. Show a little cleavage, flirt a little, anyone’ll sell you anything.” Buffy frowns uncomfortably. “C’mon. I can do the flashing and flirting, if you don’t want to.”

“That doesn’t—“ Buffy shakes her head. Then she grins, eyes lighting up. “Wait, I know somewhere you won’t need to do that.” Faith tilts her head curiously. “Come on.” Buffy grabs Faith’s hand and starts off down the sidewalk, pulling Faith behind her. Faith catches up to her and carefully tugs her hand out of Buffy’s. That’s…too much for Faith. They’re not there yet. Buffy grabbing her hand without warning still makes Faith tense up, waiting for a blow, a knife, a harsh word that isn’t coming.

Buffy doesn’t seem to notice Faith’s turmoil. She just keeps walking, so Faith says nothing, walking beside her. They’re moving quickly enough that anyone else on the streets probably thinks they’re rushing, late for something, somewhere. For them, though, with their Slayer speed, it’s normal, almost leisurely.

Faith thinks about a moment on patrol from the year before. They had been walking from one cemetery to the next, stakes in hand and miscellaneous weapons in bags, when Buffy had turned to her and said, “ _You know, you’re the first person to patrol with me and not tell me to slow down_.”

Faith had shrugged and said, “ _You’re not that hard to keep up with. They’re just slow. Everyone is, ‘sides us_.”

“Where are we going?” Faith asks as they turn a corner and cross the street. Neither of them bother looking both ways. Their Slayer hearing would pick up any cars, the direction they’re approaching from, and how far away they are long before they get close enough to be dangerous.

“Willy’s,” Buffy says. The name rings a bell for Faith, and she frowns over it for a moment before it clicks.

“Willy’s?” she echoes. “As in that demon bar?” Buffy nods. “You know we’re Slayers, right? Destined enemies of vampires and demons and, y’know, Willy’s whole clientele?”

“I know,” Buffy says. She glances over at Faith, grinning dangerously. “But Willy’s more afraid of me than he is of any of his customers, so if we’re looking to get drunk, that’s the best place for it.” Faith shakes her head, unable to keep an answering grin off her own face.

“What the hell?” she says. “A bar fight with some vamps could be fun.”

* * *

They don’t get in a bar fight.

Instead, Buffy gets a cell phone call just as Willy is reluctantly bringing them their drinks, after being extensively threatened. Despite Faith making an annoyed face—scrunching up her eyebrows and grimacing—Buffy answers the phone.

“Hello?” Buffy says, making a face right back at Faith. Faith rolls her eyes and turns to her drink, shooting Willy a glare over the bar and sending him scurrying away. “Wait, _what_?” Buffy sounds alarmed now, and Faith looks back over at her, frowning. Faith tips her head a bit, concentrating, listening to whoever is on the other end of the phone.

“ _They escaped!_ ” It’s Xander, and Faith barely suppresses a groan. Of _course_ it’s Xander. “ _I’m following them, but Buffy, I really don’t think this is going to end well._ ”

“Okay,” Buffy says. “Okay, where are you now?” Xander rattles off an address. “Alright, we’re on our way.”

“ _We_?” Xander says.

“Me and Faith.” Buffy glances over at Faith, her face grim. “Be mad about it later. We have Neanderthals to deal with first.” Buffy hangs up.

“Sorry, _Neanderthals_?” Faith says. “Is that, like, a euphemism or something?” Buffy shakes her head.

“Nope,” she says. “Apparently some guys at Xander’s pub got drunk and turned into cavemen?” Faith remembers the guys who she had passed on her way out the pub, the way they had seemed to be mostly communicating in broken phrases and monosyllabic grunts.

“Y’know, actually, that tracks,” she says, mostly to herself. “So, what, we gonna go save Harris or what?” Buffy sighs, looking at her drink longingly, but she slips off her barstool and nods.

“Let’s go,” she says.

“One sec.” Faith grabs her drink, tips her head back, and chugs the whole thing in about fifteen seconds.

“ _Faith_ ,” Buffy says, partially admonishing and partially what Faith really hopes is impressed.

“We going?” Faith asks, setting her glass down on the bar and hopping off her stool. Buffy shakes her head as they head for the door.

“I forgot how _weird_ you are,” she says, and if Faith didn’t know better, she would call Buffy’s tone affectionate. “Now come on. We have to hurry.”

It’s dark outside. Faith’s eyes adjust instantly, her Slayer-enhanced eyesight lighting up the streets for her. She glances over at Buffy, raising her eyebrows.

“You really need to get a car,” she says.

“I can’t drive.” Buffy zips up her jacket.

“So how do we plan on getting there?” Faith asks.

“We run.” With that, Buffy takes off down the street, and Faith takes a moment to be impressed that Buffy can run in those heeled boots before she takes off running, too.

They make it across town quickly that way. Faith makes a bit of a game out of it in her head, trying to match Buffy stride for stride, only dropping behind her when they pass through tight alleys—shortcuts—or when the sidewalk narrows so much that they can’t fit side by side.

“You smell that?” Buffy says as they come within a few blocks of the address Xander had given them on the phone.

“Smoke,” Faith says grimly. Suddenly, the idea of alcohol-induced cavemen seems a bit less comical.

Sure enough, they turn a corner and there’s a building with windows lit up orange from the inside and smoke billowing out of its roof. Xander is standing in front of it, eyes wide and afraid. He turns to face Faith and Buffy as they slow to a jog and approach him.

“They’re in there,” Xander says, pointing at the building. “They were yelling earlier, but—it went quiet a few minutes ago.” His hand is trembling as he lowers it back to his side. “I couldn’t get the front door open.”

“Let’s go,” Buffy says. Faith steps toward the building, Buffy a few yards behind her. She reaches for the door handle, ignoring the way the metal is hot from the flames behind it, the way it burns her palm. It’s locked, so Faith takes a few steps back, gets some momentum, and kicks it open. The door breaks into three pieces beneath her foot, and a wave of heat pours out of the newly-created opening into the building. Xander stumbles back, but Buffy and Faith move forwards.

“Stay low,” Faith says as she walks into the burning building, Buffy only a step or two behind. They both crouch, staying out of the smoke that fills the room. Faith’s chest starts to hurt immediately, the thin smoke near the floor tickling her lungs, trying to force a cough out of her. She holds it down, breathing shallowly.

The room is awash in orange and red light, and it’s so hot that Faith can barely think. The room wavers around her, the heat making the air shimmer and dance in front of her eyes. Still, Faith glances around, searching the room as quickly as she can for any caveman-looking college boys.

_There_. Faith spots a passed-out guy in a red polo shirt. She turns around, grabbing Buffy’s shoulder and pointing out the unconscious form. She doesn’t want to risk opening her mouth to speak; she thinks her lungs would revolt. Buffy nods at her and hurries over to the guy, picking him up effortlessly and tossing him over her shoulder. In any other circumstance, it would be comical: the man is around six feet tall, Faith guesses, and Buffy balances him over her shoulder as if he weighs nothing, as if he doesn’t have eight inches and at least fifty pounds on her.

Buffy carries the guy out of the room, and Faith goes back to her search. Flames dance a dozen feet to her left, and she can feel the heat prickling across her skin. She ignores it, spotting another guy at the back of the room. She hurries over to him and mimics Buffy’s motion, pulling his unconscious body over her shoulder and carrying him to the door.

When she steps back out into the night, the sudden rush of cold, clean air is enough to make Faith dizzy and start her coughing uncontrollably. Faith lowers the guy she’s carrying to the ground and falls to her knees, trying and failing to get a full breath into her lungs. Vaguely, she’s aware of Buffy coming back out of the building once more, a body over each shoulder.

“That’s all of them,” she hears Xander say as she takes deep, long breaths, trying to stop the world from spinning. Buffy is sitting down, too, Faith notices, struggling to breathe just as much as Faith.

_Smoke inhalation’s a_ bitch _._

Faith recovers first. She pushes herself to her feet, resting her hands on top of her head and trying to slow her heartbeat. She can hear the fire crackling inside the building loud and clear. She can hear sirens approaching in the distance. She can hear…

“ _Help! Someone help!_ ”

_Someone’s still in the building_.

Faith takes off like a sprinter at a starting gun, bolting back towards the building.

“Faith?” Buffy shouts after her, but Faith is already through the door, back into the furnace the building has become.

“Help!” The voice is still yelling, but it quickly breaks off into coughing. The voice sounds familiar, but Faith doesn’t waste time trying to recognize it.

“Keep yelling!” she shouts, hoping the voice’s source can hear her. She can’t see anything clearly anymore; the fire has grown, the smoke has gotten thicker.

“Help!” A different voice this time, a deep, masculine one where the first had been high-pitched. This one isn’t familiar. Faith closes her eyes, listening to the voice’s cries, trying to locate it. Her eyelids do little to block out the light of the fire, and vague, orange-yellow shapes dance across her vision. “ _Help_!”

_There_. Faith’s eyes fly open, and she rushes forward, leaping over a patch of the floor that’s burning up. She ducks around a corner, and there’s Willow, with a man Faith has never seen before, huddled against a wall.

“Faith!” Willow shouts, before breaking into another coughing fit. Faith hurries forward, calculating in her head. There’s no way, with the smoke in her lungs and the way it’s making her muscles tremble, that Faith will be able to carry them both and jump back over the fire to get out. High above them, though, an open window leads out into the night.

“You,” Faith says, pointing at the man. He stares at her, eyes wide and terrified. “Brace yourself.”

“What—“ Faith bends down, grabbing him at the knees and lifting him up. He shouts wordlessly, half shocked and half terrified. Faith ignores him, straightening her knees and using the momentum to shove him up the wall and out the window.

She hears him hit the ground outside hard, but she doesn’t hear any bones crunch, so she counts it as a victory.

“Get on my back,” Faith says to Willow, turning around.

“What?” Willow says.

“Just _do it_.” Faith’s tone is harsh and urgent, and, galvanized into action, Willow obeys, grabbing onto Faith’s shoulders and climbing onto her back. Faith catches her legs. “Hold on tight,” she says, and runs.

To her credit, Willow doesn’t scream when Faith jumps over the burning patch of floor. She does grip Faith’s shoulders so tightly that Faith is fairly sure she’ll have bruises tomorrow, even with her Slayer healing, but beyond that, she doesn’t react.

Faith comes out the front door of the building at a flat-out sprint, Willow on her back. She comes to a stop in front of Xander and Buffy, both of whom stare at her with wide eyes. She lets go of Willow’s legs, wincing at the way the fabric of Willow’s jeans scrapes against the burn on her palm from the door handle, and Willow slips off her back just in time. Faith collapses onto her knees on the pavement, her lungs burning. She tries and fails to stay upright, slipping sideways and falling onto her back, spread-eagle on the cold concrete. She closes her eyes, coughing with every breath she takes. She isn’t sure how long she lies there, taking quick, shallow breaths as her head spins.

“Faith.” It’s Buffy’s voice. Faith opens her eyes a crack and sees Buffy’s face above her. “Faith, are you okay?”

“Fine,” Faith says. Her voice rasps through her throat, and she winces at the sharp pain it brings with it. “Great.”

“Buffy.” It’s that guy’s voice, the one Faith saved from the building. Faith holds herself up on her elbows, ignoring the way her lungs protest, and looks up. Buffy is kneeling next to Faith, and the man is standing several feet away. He has soot in his hair, and he holds himself gingerly, one hand pressed to his right side. Faith guesses it’s the side he landed on when she threw him out the window. “Can I talk to you?”

“What do you want, Parker?” Buffy says tiredly, and Faith recognizes the name from their conversation—had it really only been the day before?—at Buffy’s house. Faith’s elbows are beginning to ache, and Buffy seems to pick up on what her deepening grimace means. She slips an arm under Faith’s shoulders, holding her. Faith leans into the contact, allowing herself to be propped up.

“I—“ Parker hesitates, glancing down at Faith, clearly uncomfortable talking in front of her. Buffy doesn’t seem to care. “I’m sorry, Buffy. I’ve been thinking about—“

“You know what?” Buffy interrupts. “I don’t care what you want. I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Buffy—“

“No.” Buffy shakes her head. “I don’t _care_. You’re not smart, you’re not nice, you’re not charming, you’re not even that _attractive_ , and I don’t know why I slept with you in the first place, but if you’re hoping for another round, you can stop hoping.” Parker blinks at her, speechless. Xander sidles up beside him and grabs his arm, visibly squeezing it tightly.

“You heard the lady,” Xander says. “And just in case you didn’t, to paraphrase: _fuck off_.” He begins to pull Parker away, towards where an ambulance has pulled up alongside the curb.

“Hey,” Faith says, still a bit delirious from the smoke inhalation. “Harris did something helpful. That’s new.” Buffy rolls her eyes, looking back down at Faith.

“He’s sweet when he wants to be,” she says. “You’ll see.” Faith doubts that. Not that Xander can be a good friend, but that she’ll ever see it. She doesn’t think he’ll ever like her enough to show it.

“You slept with _that_ guy?” Faith says, changing the subject. Buffy groans.

“Regrettably.”

“He’s Parker.” Faith tries to sit up, but Buffy holds her still, raising her eyebrows in a silent order. _Stay_. Faith obeys, settling back into Buffy’s arm and pretending she isn’t enjoying the contact much more than she should. “The one you mentioned last night.” Buffy bites her lip and nods. “That’s why the uptight thing bothered you so much,” Faith continues, everything suddenly making sense to her. “I’m guessing he wasn’t great to you afterwards.” Buffy half-laughs, though the sound is more bitter and hurt than anything.

“Not exactly,” she says.

“I’m sorry,” Faith says. Buffy shrugs.

“You didn’t know.” She half-smiles down at Faith. “It’s not your fault.”

“No, I’m—“ This time, Faith is insistent. She sits all the way up, despite the way her head spins and her stomach lurches in protest, and turns to face Buffy. “I’m sorry that happened to you. You deserve better.” Buffy’s half-smile turns genuine.

“Thanks, Faith.” Faith nods, and carefully, hesitantly, pushes herself to her feet. Buffy stands as well, offering Faith an arm to balance herself on. Faith takes it, leaning on Buffy until her head stops spinning.

“I’m going to go talk to Harris,” Faith says. She glances over to the ambulance, where Xander is sitting with Willow, an arm around her shoulders as she holds an oxygen mask to her face.

“That’s probably a bad idea,” Buffy warns. “It’s—“

“Not gonna end well.” Faith shrugs. “I’ve gotta try, right?”

“Right.” Buffy nods slowly. “Good luck, I guess.”

“Thanks, B.” Faith walks on still-shaky legs over to the ambulance. Xander is talking quietly to Willow, who smiles weakly at him through her oxygen mask and leans into his shoulder. Faith makes a point of not listening in. She’s trying to build trust here, and eavesdropping, whether Willow and Xander are aware of it or not, isn’t the way to go about that.

“Hey,” Faith says, stopping in front of them. They look up at her, Xander with his usual glare and Willow with…Faith can’t tell. Some strange combination of guardedness and gratitude, perhaps.

“What?” Xander says. He’s abrupt, though not outright hostile, which Faith counts as an improvement.

“Can I talk to you?” Faith says. Xander’s eyes narrow, and he says nothing for a long moment, watching her. Finally, he nods.

“You good?” he asks Willow. She nods, smiling at him. Xander leans over, kissing her temple lightly. Faith is struck by the gentleness of the gesture, the care behind it. For all that she doesn’t like about Xander—which is not an insubstantial amount—it’s obvious just how much, how deeply, he cares for his friends.

“What do you want?” Xander says as they walk away from the ambulance, away from the general chaos of the street outside the half-burnt building. The Neanderthal guys have been taken to the hospital, and the fire has been put out, but the ambulance lights are still flashing, and various paramedics and firemen are still wandering the scene. Faith wonders just how long she spent lying on the pavement, coughing, before Buffy had knelt down beside her. Longer than the few moments it had felt like to her, certainly.

“I just—“ Faith turns to face him. “Can you just _tell_ me? Whatever I did, why you hate me so much. Just tell me.” Xander grits his teeth, a vein standing out in his neck.

“Fuck you,” he says. Faith starts to respond in kind, but Xander keeps talking. “Fuck you, you don’t _remember_?”

“Should I?” Faith says, spreading her arms helplessly. “Cause you’re really not helping me, here.” Xander shakes his head roughly, quickly enough that it looks like it hurts.

“At the motel,” he says. His words are clipped, toneless. “After—after Finch, after—I was trying to help you. I was trying to help you, and you—“ He cuts himself off, jerking his head to the side, refusing to look at her, and Faith…

Faith remembers. She remembers the feeling of her hands around Xander’s throat, his terrified eyes underneath her, remembers—

Faith takes a step backwards, putting more space between herself and Xander.

“Oh,” she says, involuntarily, mostly to herself. Xander snorts.

“Yeah, _oh_ ,” he says, still not looking at her. “You sexually assaulted me. So yeah, I fucking _hate_ you. You remember _now_?”

“I didn’t forget it happened,” Faith says quietly. “I didn’t. I just—I didn’t really…think about it.” Xander is clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides, a muscle working in his jaw.

“You didn’t think about it,” he repeats.

“I didn’t,” Faith says, her voice carefully even. “I don’t know. I guess I just—shit like that, worse shit, has happened to me.”

“That’s not a fucking excuse!” Finally, Xander looks at her again, eyes narrow and reddening with unshed, angry tears.

“I’m not saying it is.” Faith raises her hands. “I’m not here to make excuses, Xander. Don’t you get that? I _can’t_. There’s no excuses. For any of it. Especially what I did to you.” She shrugs helplessly. “I’m here to save the world. Beyond that, I can’t fix a damn thing.”

“No.” Xander unclenches his fists one last time. “No, you can’t.”

“And I’m not gonna try,” Faith says. “I’m not gonna try to make up for it, alright? Because I can’t, and it would be—I don’t know. I feel like it would be insulting for me to try.” Xander nods slowly.

“You’re right. It would be.” Faith shoves her hands in her pockets. She’s out of things to say to Xander. She has a feeling he wouldn’t appreciate an apology, and she can hardly blame him, no matter how much one is building in her chest. Instead, she turns away, beginning to walk back towards the busy scene outside the half-burnt building.

“Faith.” She looks back over at her shoulder. “I can—let’s call a truce. I stop trying to get Buffy to kill you, you save the world. After that…no promises.”

“Sounds fair,” Faith says.

“One more thing,” Xander says. He seems almost embarrassed, his words hurried and quiet. “You don’t—you don’t tell anyone. About what happened.”

“I wasn’t going to, anyways,” Faith says. She hesitates for a moment, shifting her weight uncertainly. “I’m guessin’ you don’t wanna shake on it, huh?” Xander half-smiles and shakes his head. “Alright. You got a truce, Harris.” With that, she turns away, walking back over to where Buffy is standing, waiting for her.

“That looked…” Buffy hesitates. “…interesting?”

“I don’t wanna get into it,” Faith says. “We called a truce. That’s all that matters.” It isn’t, not even a little bit, but it’s all Faith cares to share with Buffy. Selfish, maybe, but Faith would rather Buffy doesn’t hate her all over again, not when they’re just beginning to fix things.

“A truce,” Buffy repeats, raising her eyebrows. “That’s unexpected. Good, but unexpected.” Faith shrugs.

“It was Xander’s idea,” she says, trying to give credit where credit is due. Buffy’s eyebrows climb higher.

“ _Really_ ,” she says.

“Yep.” Faith starts walking down the sidewalk, away from the burnt building, and Buffy follows her. “You wanna go for a cool-down slay? I could dust a vamp or two.”

“After all that, you still have the energy to go slaying?” Buffy says, shaking her head.

“Sure.” Faith pulls her stake from where it hangs from her belt with her uninjured hand. “The night is young. I don’t really feel like getting drunk anymore, so why not the next best thing?”

“I guess,” Buffy says doubtfully. “Hey, is your hand okay?” Faith glances down at her palm, where she burnt it on the door. The skin is red, swollen and tight. “Let me see.” Buffy reaches out, catching Faith’s wrist and holding her hand up. She examines the injury for a moment.

“It’ll heal,” Faith says. Buffy releases her wrist, and Faith drops her hand back to her side, missing the contact immediately. “I can slay left-handed.” Buffy switches her own stake from her right hand to her left.

“Bet you I can do it better,” she says. Faith grins. For a moment, she pushes away the guilt and complications of Xander, the stares of Buffy’s friends from earlier that day, the lingering suspicion and uncertainty between herself and Buffy. She pushes it all away, focusing on the clean, cold air in her lungs, and the grain of the stake in her hand.

“You’re on.” Buffy smiles at the words, brandishing her stake in her left hand.

“Loser buys the winner ice cream,” she says. Together, they head for the nearest graveyard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hopefully it was worth the wait.
> 
> this is far from the last time xander's sexual assault will be brought up; it's going to continue to be discussed and unpacked. as much as i do Not like xander in canon, i'm going to do my best to respect his trauma here and dignify his healing process.
> 
> i'm on tumblr @daisys-quake and on twitter @thoughtsintoink. i love talking to y'all, feel free to hmu. leave a comment and kudos if you enjoyed—an out-of-nowhere nice comment was what gave me the motivation to write the last 2k words of this chapter and get it posted, so they really do pay off ;) thanks for reading!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're back folks! nearly 14k words this time—and this isn't even one of my longer chapter outlines. we are in for a RIDE. if you follow me on tumblr, you've seen me doing some math regarding the average word count per chapter and how many words we'll be at before buffy and faith kiss—no spoilers, but that slow burn tag? it's there for a reason sakjdghsad.
> 
> not a ton of notes on this chapter to be honest. mostly, it seemed like you guys appreciate how i'm tackling the issue of xander's sexual assault. that isn't really touched on in this chapter, but believe me, we're far from done with that thread.
> 
> other than that, i hope you enjoy the chapter! for timeline clarification, this chapter falls during wild at heart—which, if you're not super familiar with season 4, is the episode before the initiative.

Faith walks to Giles’ apartment.

She doesn’t really have another way to get there. Joyce had offered her a ride that morning on her way to work, but Faith had wanted to put this off as long as possible, so she had said no. Instead, she walks, quite a bit slower than she could if she tried. It’s both a way of putting off calling Roberts even further, and a way for Faith to stay outside longer. It’s a beautiful day: sunny, warm but not hot, a light breeze stirring the air. Faith has never been an outdoors kind of person—growing up in Boston, she hadn’t exactly had the chance to be—but living in Roswell, driving out into the desert every night and wandering around in the darkness, she had developed a bit of respect and appreciation for the world around her.

Roberts had called that a sign of healing, when she had told him about it. Faith was extending her feelings, her understanding, her empathy, not only to other people but to the world around her. Amoral people, he had said, are rarely capable of that kind of love.

Faith had called him a few days ago. She’d warned him about what he was going to have to do for her, and asked him not to tell Giles the last line of the prophecy. If Giles knew it, he would tell Buffy, and then the house of cards of a friendship that Faith is building between herself and Buffy would come crumbling down.

Faith doesn’t like that Roberts has to lie for her, but he had agreed without hesitation. He had advised that she just tell Buffy herself, of course, but he had agreed all the same. Faith doesn’t know why. She can’t imagine what possesses him to keep standing with her, listening to her. She doesn’t understand why he’s still on her side.

“Faith Lehane?” Faith jerks herself out of her thoughts, mentally scolding herself for getting so involved in her own head that she’s lost track of her surroundings. She should’ve been aware minutes ago of anyone who’s close enough to recognize her, let alone talk to her.

Faith looks off to her left, where the voice had come from. A shadowy, narrow alley between two buildings holds the source, and her eyes go wide when she realizes who’s speaking to her.

It’s a demon of some kind—inhumanly tall, green-skinned and ominous. Faith goes for the knife on her belt immediately, and steps into the alley, inches away from the demon. Rather than being intimidated, however, the demon looks at her knife and _smiles_.

“Faith,” it— _he_?—repeats, but it’s not a question this time. Belatedly, Faith realizes the knife she had put on her belt today is the knife the Mayor gave her—the one that had left the scar on her stomach.

“Who the hell are you?” Faith asks, raising her knife defensively.

“I have something for you,” the demon says, instead of answering. He holds out a manila envelope. “The Mayor sends his regards.” The hair on the back of Faith’s neck stands up.

“The Mayor’s dead,” she says. _Isn’t he_? The demon grins.

“Sure is,” he agrees. He waves the envelope a bit. “He left a present. For his favorite Slayer.” Faith stares at the demon for a long moment, but he doesn’t move, just holds out the envelope, waiting for an answer.

Faith reaches out and takes it.

The demon’s grin widens as he releases the envelope into Faith’s hand, but she doesn’t give him time to speak. With her other hand, faster than even her own eyes can see, she lashes out with the knife and cuts the demon’s throat. The knife is sharp, and with her Slayer strength behind it, it cuts deep—through tendons, muscles, arteries. A spray of blood rewards Faith’s efforts, splashing across her face and dripping down her knife hand. The demon makes a gurgling sound as he slumps to his knees before falling to the side, where his body doesn’t explode into dust, or turn to liquid, or shrivel away. It just lies there, dead, washing the dirty concrete in blood.

The demon blood is red. It looks human on Faith’s hands, on the knife before she wipes it clean on the demon’s clothes, on her face where she can see it in the reflection on the blade.

Like Finch’s had.

Faith rips a chunk of fabric from the demon’s shirt and uses it to wipe the blood from her face and hands. She leaves the demon corpse where it is. Either it will magically disappear somehow, or the cops will find it, and Faith imagines the Sunnydale police are used to making mysterious, inhuman corpses disappear.

Faith steps back out of the alley with her knife back in its sheath on her belt, her face and hands clean. She looks as though nothing has happened, but for the envelope in her hand.

Faith hesitates outside the alley. Giles’ apartment is only a block or two ahead. He’s expecting her soon. If she doesn’t show…

Faith looks down at the envelope in her hand. The Mayor had left it for her; whatever it is, it can’t be good. It could be—probably _is_ —dangerous. Not to Faith, of course; in his own sociopathic way, the Mayor had cared about her. Faith is sure of that. But it’s likely dangerous to Buffy, to the Scoobies.

Whatever it is, it’s the legacy of Faith’s mistakes, so it’s her responsibility to get rid of it. She turns around and starts walking home, full speed this time, back to the Summers house, to find out what the Mayor left for her.

* * *

Faith decides to open the envelope in the living room. She has a feeling she’ll want to be sitting down for this, whatever _this_ is, so she sits on the couch, in front of the coffee table. She takes a deep breath, weighing the envelope in her hands. It doesn’t weigh much, but certainly more than it would if there was nothing but paper inside. Whatever the Mayor left for her, it’s more than a thank you note.

“Get on with it,” Faith mutters to herself, and before she can hesitate further, she opens the envelope and pours its contents out on the coffee table.

There’s a video tape of some kind. It’s not labeled or anything, just a small, black tape, wound up, waiting to be played. The other object…Faith doesn’t know _what_ it is.

It doesn’t look like a weapon. It’s small, without any blades, points, or anything else that could be used to hurt somebody. There’s what looks like a handle on one side, but Faith can’t make heads or tails out of what it’s meant to achieve. She picks it up cautiously, turning it over in her hands. From everything Faith can tell, it appears to be just a harmless object: wood and metal, and nothing else.

Faith sets the object aside for now and picks up the video tape. She weighs it in her hands for a moment before getting up and walking over to the TV across the room. It has a small video player in the cabinet beneath it, and she pops the tape in, settling herself back on the couch before picking up the remote and pressing play.

An image of the Mayor pops up.

“ _Hello, Faith_ ,” the image says, and Faith stops the video.

She isn’t sure how long she sits there, staring at the screen, unable to bring herself to play it. She doesn’t want to hear whatever the Mayor has to say, whatever excuses or platitudes or orders he has to manipulate her from beyond the grave.

After a while, she hears the front door open.

“Faith?” Buffy’s voice calls. Faith goes for the remote, trying to shut off the TV in time, but she’s too slow. Buffy steps into the living room, and her eyes fall to the TV, with its image of the Mayor. “Faith,” she says again, her voice cold this time. “What are you doing?”

“Not what it looks like, B,” Faith says, clicking the TV off and setting the remote on the coffee table. That draws Buffy’s attention to the strange object Faith had set aside.

“What is that?” she asks, stepping closer. Faith shrugs.

“I don’t know,” she says. “He left it for me.” She stands, and Buffy takes a step back. “B,” she says, her voice carefully neutral. “Buffy. I swear, this isn’t—“

“Isn’t what?” Buffy says. “Isn’t you watching a video from your old boss? So you _didn’t_ get a goodie bag from our local homicidal dead snake demon?” Faith looks away, out the window behind the couch, and swallows hard.

“Buffy, I—“

“Are you still working for him?” Buffy says.

“ _What_?” Faith shakes her head. “What d’you think’s going on? He’s just sending me home movies from hell?” Buffy says nothing. “This?” Faith says, pointing to the TV. “I didn’t ask for this. I was walking to G’s and some demon popped outta an alley with a present from the Mayor.”

“So you’re not working for him?” Buffy sounds…almost relieved.

“What?” Faith says. “Needed me to say it? Needed to make sure I wasn’t losing it again? Aren’t you supposed to _trust_ me now?” She scoffs. “Would you ever accuse one of your little Scooby gang of bein’ evil?” It’s not a fair question; Faith knows that. No one else has her history. But she wants _out_ , out of this room, out from under Buffy’s scrutinizing gaze, and the half-guilty look on Buffy’s face in response to Faith’s last question is all the excuse Faith needs to flee.

“You know what? Fuck this,” Faith says, stomping forward. She mashes the eject button on the video player and grabs the tape. Whatever’s on it, she has no interest in letting Buffy see it. The Mayor, their relationship, the way he had treated her—none of it is anyone’s business but her own. She turns and heads for the door, brushing right past Buffy. Buffy tenses, but she doesn’t try to stop Faith, and Faith takes that as a victory. “You can keep the _goodie bag_.” Faith lets that old, comforting anger that she’s been keeping at bay for weeks around Buffy slip back into her voice. “Knock yourself out.” With that, she storms out the door, ignoring the way Buffy calls after her as the door slams shut.

If Buffy can’t be bothered to stop her, Faith isn’t going to stop.

* * *

Buffy knows something is wrong with Willow the moment she steps through the door of their dorm room. Willow is lying down, despite the fact that it’s the middle of the day, and she’s not flipping through a textbook, or a spell book, or scribbling notes. She’s just lying there, fully dressed, on top of the covers, staring up at the ceiling.

“Wil?” Buffy says, closing the door behind her. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Willow says. She rolls onto her side, looking at Buffy. “I miss Oz.”

“Miss—“ Buffy can’t make sense of that. They go to school together; they see Oz every day.

“We were going to have lunch together today,” Willow says. “And yesterday. And the day before yesterday.” She half-shrugs with the shoulder that isn’t pressed into the mattress. “He keeps canceling to hang out with Veruca.”

“Veruca?” Buffy frowns, trying to place the name. “The girl from the Bronze?”

“Yep.” Willow pops the _p_ , resignation spread across her face.

“That’s…” Buffy sits down on the bed beside Willow. “Do you think there’s something going on there?”

“Like, is he cheating on me?” Willow says. “No. Oz would never do that.” She sits up, swinging her legs off the bed and sitting up next to Buffy. “It’s just…it feels like he’s not really _there_. He keeps canceling, and even when he’s with me, it’s like he’s not _with_ me. His head’s always somewhere else.” Buffy puts her arm around Willow’s shoulders sympathetically.

“Well, I’m sure whatever it is, you’ll work it out,” she says. “You guys are, like, inseparable. It’s kind of gross.” That makes Willow smile, though it’s small.

“We kinda are,” she agrees. “Thanks, Buffy.”

“No problem.” Buffy digs through her bag, searching for the strange object Faith had left on the coffee table at the house. “And hey, I’m about to take your mind off it.” She pulls out the object. Willow frowns at it.

“What’s that?” she says. Buffy hands it to her.

“That’s what I want you to find out.” Willow turns the object over in her hands. “It belonged to the Mayor. He left it for Faith.” Willow’s head snaps up.

“He _what_?” she says, her pitch rising.

“It’s—“ Buffy sighs. “I don’t really know what’s going on, honestly. Apparently some demon gave it to Faith and said it was from the Mayor.”

“Okay,” Willow says slowly. “And where is Faith now?”

“I don’t know.” Buffy raises her hands, anticipating Willow’s protests. “I let her go, alright? She’s already upset, I didn’t want to make things worse.”

“Things’ll get a whole lot worse if she’s working for the Mayor again!” Willow says.

“I _know_ ,” Buffy says. “But she said she wasn’t.”

“And you believe her?”

“I have to.” Buffy spreads her arms helplessly. “I can’t be wrong about her, Wil. I can’t be.” Willow looks at her for a long moment, biting her lip uncertainly.

“Well, you’re definitely taking my mind off of Oz,” she finally says. Buffy smiles.

“Thanks, Wil,” she says, standing up. “I’m gonna go find Faith. Let me know when you figure out what that thing does.” Willow holds the object up in acknowledgment and nods.

“Good luck,” she says as Buffy leaves.

* * *

Willow quickly figures out where she’s supposed to put her hand on the object—there’s a clear handle on one side—but that’s about as far as she can get. There’s nothing in the few magic books she has in her dorm room that even hints at the object’s origin, usage, or purpose. She can’t find anything on the internet, either. She’s sitting on her bed, considering calling Giles for help, when there’s a knock at the dorm room door. She looks up as it opens.

“Hey.” It’s Oz, hovering uncertainly on the threshold.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Willow says, looking back down at the object in her hand. “Need an invitation?” She’s being snappy, and she knows it, but…Oz deserves it, doesn’t he? He hasn’t exactly been winning any awards for _best boyfriend_ lately.

“No.” Oz steps into the room and closes the door.

“What is it?” Willow says. “I’m busy, y’know. Buffy needs my help.” She holds up the object pointedly.

“I…” Oz takes another step into the room, and when Willow doesn’t react, he moves close enough to sit on the far end of her bed. “I’m sorry about lunch.”

“Yeah?” Willow says. “Are you sorry about lunch yesterday, too? And the day before that? And last week, when you kicked me out and made me walk home in the middle of the night?”

“I offered to walk you home,” Oz says.

“That’s not the _point_ —“ Willow cuts herself off and looks away. “Look, just—can we not do this right now? I’m busy.” She holds up the object in his direction.

“I’ll go if you really want me to,” Oz says softly. “But, Wil…” He reaches up, grasping the other side of the object and gently lowering it towards the bed between them. “I—“ He’s cut off by a small click from the object and a flash of light that fills the room.

Willow is blown across the room, somehow ending up against the wall by the door. She falls to the ground and collapses sideways, catching herself on her… _surprisingly well-muscled and slightly hairy arms_? She reaches up to rub at her forehead, where a migraine is beginning to form, but stops halfway up, when her fingers brush against a beard that had _definitely_ not been attached to her face a few moments ago.

“Oh, _shit_ ,” she says. Or, Willow doesn’t say, but her voice does, from across the room. Willow looks up, and there her body is on the bed, wide-eyed and shocked, yet oddly calm.

“Shit,” Willow echoes, looking down at her, or rather, _Oz’s_ body.

“Well, I guess we know what this thing does,” Oz says in Willow’s voice, holding up the strange object that Buffy had given Willow. Willow groans, the sound coming out deep and rough, and lets her—Oz’s—head fall back, smacking into the wall.

* * *

Faith hops down off the roof of the mausoleum once the last of the orange glow of sunset has faded from the sky.

She can feel Buffy’s presence on the edge of her senses, the Slayer connection tingling in her mind. It’s been there all day as Buffy tracks her. Faith isn’t sure what will happen when she finally lets Buffy catch her, but she’s sure it won’t be fun, so she’s been dodging Buffy all day, leading her on pointless loops around the city, and finally, as it got closer to nightfall, through the cemeteries.

Faith takes a turn between two crypts, and there, to her surprise, is Spike. Faith does a double take before she raises her stake defensively.

“I didn’t think you were stupid enough to come back here,” she says. Spike turns and looks at her, his platinum blond hair gleaming in the rising moonlight.

“Oh, it’s the crazy one,” he says, his face twisting into a sneer. “Heard you were back. When did you stop being evil?”

“You know what?” Faith says, tipping her head. “I’m not doing this shit today.” With that, she charges him. Spike’s eyes go wide in surprise, but he ducks out of the way of her first swing of her stake.

“ _Damn_ , Slayer,” he says, evading her next few attacks with irritating ease. “Got a bee in our bonnet, have we?”

“Do yourself a favor,” Faith says, and her next swing leaves a scrape down the sleeve of Spike’s jacket. Ignoring the way he curses at her for the damage to his wardrobe, she says, “Shut the hell up and I’ll kill you quick.”

“Empty threat, bitch,” Spike says, grabbing her stake and wrenching it out of her hand. “I’ll be the one doing the killing.” He hisses, slipping into vamp-face, his teeth lengthening and sharpening in his mouth. He swipes at her, and Faith ducks, throwing herself to the side and out of his reach. She stumbles over the uneven ground, and goes sprawling, catching herself on her palms. She flips herself over quickly, but Spike is already above her, smirking through his fangs and raising one hand.

“God, I love killing Slayers,” he says. “Any last words?” Faith is about to flip him off of her when a crossbow bolt comes out of nowhere, smacking into his shoulder. Spike roars in pain, stumbles back and off of Faith, and, without hesitation, flees into the night.

“Pussy!” Faith shouts after him as she gets back on her feet. She turns to see who’s stolen her fight, and is totally unsurprised to see Buffy, crossbow still up. “What was that for?” Faith says, glaring at her. “I was having fun.”

“Fun?” Buffy says, lowering her crossbow. “I just saved your life!” Faith snorts.

“I had him,” she says. Buffy rolls her eyes.

“Yeah, I could totally tell by the way he was about to decapitate you,” she says. Faith crosses her arms and looks away.

“What do you want, B?” she says. “You here to yell more? Beat me up? Try and stake me?”

“No,” Buffy says. She slings her crossbow back over her shoulder and, to Faith’s surprise, doesn’t go for the stake in her sleeve or the knife on her hip. Or the two… _rifles?_ …slung over her free shoulder. “We’ve got bigger problems right now. Willow and Oz accidentally triggered that… _thing_ the Mayor left you.”

“Triggered it?” Faith says, frowning. “What’d it do? Are they okay?”

“What did it—you don’t know?” Buffy says. “The video didn’t say?” Faith tugs the video tape out of her back pocket and holds it up for Buffy to see.

“Dunno,” she says. “Didn’t watch it. You interrupted, remember?” She lowers her hand and slips the tape back into her pocket. “‘Sides, he probably didn’t bother to explain anything. The boss was never the sharing type.”

“The boss,” Buffy repeats, and Faith looks away.

“Slip of the tongue,” she says. “That’s…what I used to call him.”

“Okay, well,” Buffy says, shaking her head. “We’ve got bigger problems right now. Willow and Oz are fine, they’re just—not exactly Willow and Oz at the moment.” Faith raises her eyebrows, silently asking for clarification. “That thing switched their bodies, or their minds, or their souls or something, I don’t know. Right now, Willow is in Oz’s body, and Oz is in Willow’s.”

“… _huh_ ,” Faith says thoughtfully. “Wonder what the b—the Mayor meant for me to do with that.”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Buffy says. Faith blinks at her. “He probably wanted you to switch with me. Take over my body, take over my life, tear the good guys apart from the inside out.” That…sounds pretty accurate, actually. Just the sort of thing the Mayor would’ve come up with as a last-ditch, post-mortem revenge plot—and just the sort of thing Faith would’ve been perfectly happy to do. She had wanted Buffy’s life; she would’ve jumped at the chance to literally take it.

“That doesn’t matter right now,” Buffy says, pulling Faith out of her thoughts. “Willow is in Oz’s body.”

“Yeah, got you the first time,” Faith says. “What am I supposed to do about it?”

“Faith.” Buffy points upwards, towards the sky. “ _Oz’s body_?” Faith looks up. A nearly-full moon hangs low on the horizon, just risen and glowing brightly. Vaguely, Faith remembers that the night before was the full moon.

“Oh.” Faith looks back down at Buffy. “Well, fuck. You chained her up somewhere, right?”

“Xander did,” Buffy says. “And he also called me fifteen minutes ago because she escaped.” Faith shakes her head slowly, feeling a headache beginning to form behind her eyes.

“So…what?” she says. “We gotta hunt down a rogue werewolf? And then figure out how to un-swap Red and Wolf Boy?” Buffy nods. “Anyone ever tell you your town fucking sucks, B?” Buffy is about to reply when a roar echoes across the cemetery, animalistic, rough, and deep. Moments later, a second howl, this one slightly higher and smoother, answers it. “What the _fuck_?” Faith says, turning to Buffy.

“That must be Veruca,” Buffy says, her face grim and tense.

“Who the hell is—“ Faith doesn’t get to finish the question. Buffy tosses one of the rifles at her, and Faith catches it automatically. She quickly recognizes it as a tranquilizer gun, similar to the kind she had used on Oz in his wolf form last year. The one Buffy holds is identical.

“Come on,” Buffy says, and takes off across the cemetery in the direction of the howls. Faith follows her, holding the tranq rifle in one hand.

It’s not difficult to track the wolves down. Werewolves aren’t exactly intelligent creatures in wolf form, and just about the furthest thing from unobtrusive. Buffy and Faith find the two wolves on the far end of the graveyard. The smaller of the two seems to be fleeing from the larger, though the larger is acting almost playful, not, as far as Faith can tell, actually aggressive.

She doesn’t spend much time analyzing their behavior, though. Instead, she turns to Buffy and whispers, “I’ll get the big guy, you get the little one.” Buffy nods, and, as one, they pull their tranq guns to their shoulders. Faith is familiar with guns—not formally trained by any means, but certainly more familiar with them than Buffy is. This becomes clear when Faith’s shot lands firmly in the larger wolf’s shoulder and Buffy’s goes wide, bouncing off a headstone and falling uselessly to the ground.

“Seriously?” Faith hisses, adjusting her aim as the smaller of the two wolves turns, sees them, and roars.

“Sorry!” Buffy says. Faith pulls the trigger of her tranq gun just as the wolf begins to charge them, and the shot lands in the wolf’s chest. It manages to take a few more steps before it collapses, unconscious, at their feet. “Guns aren’t exactly a tool of the trade, you know! Where’d you learn to shoot, anyway?” Faith swings her gun back over her shoulder.

“Boston,” she says shortly, in a tone that makes it clear that this particular subject is about to be dropped. “Which one do you wanna carry? Also, where are we gonna take them?”

“Oz’s house,” Buffy says, scooping up the smaller of the two wolves and throwing it over her shoulders in a fireman’s carry. “He has a place off campus, there’s a cage in the basement.”

“How does he explain _that_ to his roommates?” Faith wonders absently as she picks up the other wolf, throwing it over her shoulder. “I don’t think anyone’s gonna believe Red’s _that_ kinky.” Buffy flushes pink, either embarrassed for her friend or out of general embarrassment at the mention of sex. Faith can’t tell which.

“People don’t really ask questions in Sunnydale,” Buffy says as they start walking. They’re in the cemetery closest to campus; Faith imagines Oz’s place is somewhere nearby.

“Yeah, but…” Faith shakes her head. “A _cage_ in the basement?”

“People didn’t ask questions about the giant snake demon that leveled the high school,” Buffy points out. “Anyway, Oz’s roommates know to clear out every full moon, and the days around it.” Faith hums thoughtfully, but doesn’t say anything else. There seems to be a tentative peace between herself and Buffy at the moment, or, at the very least, a cease-fire. After the tension of that morning, Faith doesn’t want to do anything that might upset that.

They walk to Oz’s house in silence. Faith counts her steps, carefully times them to avoid the cracks in the sidewalk, syncs her stride with Buffy’s then changes it again, does just about anything she can to avoid thinking about the tape in her back pocket. In the back of her mind, she decides that she’s going to burn it at the first opportunity. The Mayor doesn’t deserve her attention or her time.

“We’re here,” Buffy says. They’ve stopped in front of a modest, cute little house a few blocks from campus. None of the lights are on.

“Let’s get a move on, then,” Faith says, shifting the wolf on her shoulder. She’s strong, but it weighs a _lot_ , and it’s getting uncomfortable.

The door is unlocked when Buffy tries the handle. With a surreptitious glance around (which Faith thinks is pointless; what would Buffy do if someone _was_ watching them? How does one make excuses for carrying giant anthropomorphic wolves into a house in the middle of the night?), Buffy turns sideways to fit the wolf through and steps into the house.

“Pretty neat for a bachelor pad,” Faith notes as she kicks the door shut behind herself. The door opens into a small entryway, beyond which one on side is the living room, and the kitchen on the other. The shoes in the entryway are stacked in pairs on a long, knee-height shelf, and various jackets are neatly hung from hooks on the wall.

“Willow comes over a lot,” Buffy says as they pass through the entryway and into the living room. “She doesn’t notice a mess until she can’t walk across the room without stepping on something, but Oz likes to keep it clean for her.” They reach a staircase heading down. Buffy descends carefully, sideways, one stair at a time. Faith is a bit less cautious, staying right on Buffy’s heels, impatient with her slow pace.

“That sure is a cage,” Faith says when they reach the bottom of the stairs. Most of the basement is taken up by the large, iron structure across the room. It’s fairly spacious, all things considered, but the metal bars of the cage are close together, and the ones around the lock on the door are lined with metal spikes. Iron shackles hang from the far wall, attached to short chains. “Wolf Boy really doesn’t trust himself, huh?”

“No,” Buffy says. “He doesn’t.” She grabs a key ring from a nail in the wall beside the stairs and heads over to the cage, balancing the wolf she’s carrying on one shoulder. She pulls the door open and sets her wolf down on the floor. Faith follows her and throws her own wolf down beside the one Buffy had been carrying. “Be gentle,” Buffy admonishes, to which Faith rolls her eyes.

“Whatever,” she says. “Do we chain them up? Or just leave them here?” Buffy eyes the shackles on the far wall for a moment, considering.

“Just leave them,” she says eventually. “It should be okay.” They leave the cage, and Buffy locks it behind them.

“Alright, well,” Faith says as they climb the stairs. “This was fun. Good luck with Wolf Boy, and whoever this _Veruca_ chick is.” With that, she starts to head back towards the front door.

“Faith,” Buffy calls after her, and Faith stops. “I’m staying here in case they wake up. I—I want you to stay, too.”

“Why?” Faith asks, turning around. Buffy shrugs.

“Two of them, two of us,” she says. Faith scoffs.

“Whatever,” she says. “What kinda food do they have in this place? If I’m sticking around, I’m eating first.” She steps back through the entryway and into the kitchen on the other side. Buffy follows her, hovering silently as Faith digs through the refrigerator.

“I think we should watch the rest of that video,” Buffy says after a moment. Faith’s fist clenches around the yogurt she’s examining, and it nearly pops. “It might explain how to un-swap Oz and Willow.”

“Knock yourself out,” Faith says. She grabs the tape from her back pocket and holds it out towards Buffy without looking at her. Buffy takes the tape, but she doesn’t walk away.

“You’re not a little bit curious about what’s on there?” she says.

“Nope,” Faith says, popping the _p_. “I’m done with that guy. I don’t care what he had to say.”

“But there might be something only you understand,” Buffy says. Faith snorts.

“What, you think we had a fucking secret language?” she says. “We weren’t hanging out weaving friendship bracelets. He was sending me on assassinations and trying to end the damn world.” Buffy says nothing, but her face is set, determined in a way that Faith knows won’t go away until Faith gives her what she wants. Faith closes the fridge. “Fine, give me the goddamn tape.” Buffy holds it out, and Faith snatches it out of her hand. She brushes past Buffy, back into the living room with Buffy trailing behind her. There’s a tape player beneath the TV, and Faith pops the tape in. “Make yourself comfortable,” she says, looking over her shoulder at Buffy as she turns the TV on. Buffy sits down on the couch across from the TV as the image of the Mayor comes up on screen. Faith quickly rewinds the few seconds of tape that have been played and joins Buffy on the couch as it begins to play.

“ _Hello, Faith_ ,” the Mayor says through the TV speakers. “ _If you’re watching this tape, it can only mean one thing. I’m dead, and our noble campaign to bring order to the town of Sunnydale has failed, utterly and completely_.” Faith digs her fingernails into the fabric of her jeans, pressing them into the flesh beneath and focusing on the sparks of pain the pressure causes. Onscreen, the Mayor stands up from his desk and walks around it, standing in front of it and leaning back against it.

“ _But on the other hand, heck! Maybe we won._ ” He laughs, and Faith’s nails scrape against her leg, leaving white marks on the black fabric of her jeans. The sound of his laughter, even tinny and distorted by the cheap TV speakers, makes her stomach turn with some bizarre, horrific combination of anger, lingering affection, and grief. “ _And right now, I’m on some jumbo monitor in the Richard Wilkins Museum, surrounded by a bunch of kids sitting Indian style and looking up at my face, filled with fear and wonder._ ” He leans forward and waves at the imaginary children, laughing again. Faith doesn’t know how much of this she can take.

“ _But the realist in me tends to doubt it_ ,” the Mayor says, his tone turning serious. “ _Now, Faith, as I record this message, you’re, uh…_ ” He looks almost pained. “ _Sleeping_.” Beside Faith, Buffy winces slightly. “ _The doctors tell me that you might never wake up._ ” The Mayor leans into the camera, and Faith experiences the unsettling sensation that he’s looking right at her, through time and space and the lens of a video camera. She feels as pinned by his gaze as she always has—as though she’s trapped and alone all over again.

“ _I don’t believe that_ ,” he says. “ _Sooner or later, you will wake up, and when you do, you’ll find the world has gone and changed on you. I wish I could make the world a better place for you to wake up in, but, tough as it is to accept, we both have to understand that even my power to protect and watch over you has its limits. See, the hard pill to swallow here is that, once I’m gone, your days here are just plain numbered._ ”

“Faith,” Buffy whispers from beside her. Buffy gently wraps her fingers around Faith’s wrist, and Faith looks down to see that blood is beginning to pool around her fingers where they’re clenched in a fist. Faith hadn’t even noticed. She unclenches her fist, and Buffy releases her wrist.

“ _Now I know, I know you’re a—you’re a smart and capable young woman in charge of her own life_.” The Mayor is still talking, and Faith turns her attention back to the screen. “ _But the problem, Faith, is that there won’t be a place in the world for you anymore._ ” That’s it.

“I’m done,” Faith says to Buffy, jumping to her feet. “I’m not—fuck this. I’m not listening to this shit anymore.” With that, she storms out of the living room, ignoring the voice of the Mayor, still talking from the TV screen.

Faith finds the liquor cabinet in the kitchen fairly easily. Oz and his roommates have some shockingly high quality alcohol for a bunch of underage, likely broke college kids, and by the time Buffy comes into the kitchen, Faith is three drinks in and pouring a fourth.

“Find what you wanted?” Faith snaps as Buffy walks in. Buffy shakes her head.

“He explained how to switch bodies,” she says, “and told you to do it to me. But nothing about how to fix it once it’s done.”

“Great.” Faith downs her drink, shaking her head vigorously as it burns its way down her throat. It’s pointless. No amount of alcohol will be able to numb the feeling of Buffy’s eyes on her from a few feet away, or the sound of the Mayor’s voice in her head. _There won’t be a place in the world for you anymore._ “Glad we learned that. Now I really am going home.”

“Faith,” Buffy says, freezing Faith in place before she can even take a step. “Do you…miss him? The Mayor, I mean?”

“None of your damn business.” Buffy doesn’t look surprised by Faith’s answer. Instead, she holds out the videotape.

“Are you sure you don’t want to watch the rest of this?” she asks.

“Why do you _care_?” Faith says, glaring at Buffy. “ _Why_ do you—does it feel good? Torturing me with this shit?” She steps closer to Buffy, their faces inches apart. “You always gotta know how I _feel_ about shit, gotta ask questions you have no right to be asking.” She shoves Buffy. Buffy stumbles back a step, but doesn’t respond in kind. “D’you get off on it? Is that what this is? You like making me remember stuff I’m trying to forget? Makes you feel powerful, getting in my head?”

“No!” Buffy says, affronted. “No, that’s—that’s not what this is.”

“Then what the hell _is_ it, B?” Buffy hesitates, and Faith scoffs. She starts to turn away, starts to take a step towards the door. Buffy reaches out and catches her arm, and Faith’s survival instincts kick in. She whirls back around, grabbing Buffy’s arm in both her hands, and uses her momentum to flip Buffy over her shoulder.

Faith uses more force than she really intended to, and Buffy goes flying, out of the kitchen and into the entryway. She smacks into the wall with a crash and falls to the ground, landing in a heap. Faith winces at the sound, quickly striding after Buffy and into the entryway. She’s about to apologize when Buffy leaps to her feet and swings a spinning back kick at Faith’s head.

_Alright, if that’s how you want to play this_.

Faith ducks the kick and lashes out with her own foot, going for Buffy’s supporting leg. Buffy executes an impressive one-legged hop, and Faith sweeps nothing but air. Even more impressively, Buffy turns her hop into a scissor kick, wrapping her legs around Faith’s neck. It’s the sort of move that could quite literally rip a vampire’s head off, but Buffy doesn’t try anything of the sort on Faith. She instead does some sort of roll off of Faith’s shoulders that Faith can’t even keep track of, ending with Faith’s head still attached to her shoulders and Buffy on her feet behind Faith.

“It’s because I _know_ , alright?” Buffy says, throwing a punch. Apparently, they’re still arguing, as well as fighting. Faith dodges the punch easily. “You can talk all you want about how you’re better now, but I can tell. Everything you did last spring is still tearing you up inside, and you won’t—“ Her words have Faith distracted, and Buffy slams a kick into Faith’s chest, sending her reeling. “— _fucking_ —“ Buffy grabs the front of Faith’s jacket and uses it to throw her backwards. “— _talk_ about it!” Faith lands on her back on the living room floor, with Buffy stalking towards her.

“How would you know?” Faith says, half-angry and half-shaken as she props herself up on her elbows. “The Slayer connection—“

“Doesn’t matter,” Buffy says. “I _know_ you.”

“You don’t know _shit._ ”

“Yeah, I do.” Buffy steps forwards. “What? You were the one who always said we were the same.”

This time, Buffy isn’t prepared when Faith sweeps her legs out from under her. She goes tumbling to the floor, and Faith pounces on top of her, pinning her down.

“So _what_?” she says, her grip bruising Buffy’s wrists where Faith is pinning her hands. “So we’re the same? You hope if you make me talk about my _feelings_ enough, you can _fix_ me? You think that’ll save you from your own shit?” She leans in, close enough that she can feel Buffy’s breath on her face. “Newsflash, B, I _killed_ people. We can cry about it all you want, but that’s not gonna bring them back. So I’m sorry, but I’m not gonna waste my time!” Buffy flips them over, kicking off with her feet hard enough to lift them both into the air, and Faith lands on her back on the coffee table in front of the couch. Buffy smashes Faith straight through the table, and it splinters around them, breaking into a half dozen pieces.

“This isn’t _about_ me!” Buffy shouts, slamming her fist into the broken piece of the table next to Faith’s head. “I’m trying to help you!”

“I don’t _need_ help!” Faith throws Buffy off of her. Faith hadn’t been aiming for any spot in particular, but her throw carries Buffy directly into the large window to the left of the TV. Buffy flies straight through it, and the deafening sound of breaking glass fills the room. The shards haven’t even hit the floor before Faith is up on her feet, leaping out the now-broken window in pursuit.

Buffy is on her back in the small front yard, covered in dozens of tiny cuts, her clothing torn in a hundred small places. Faith lands on top of her, pinning her once again.

“I don’t want your help, Buffy!” Faith yells again. Vaguely, she’s aware of her voice rising in pitch, wavering unsteadily. “Alright? I don’t _want_ it!” Buffy flips them again, and punches Faith in the face. Faith grins savagely at the pain, even as she feels her lip split and blood begin to fill her mouth.

“I can live with what I did,” Faith says, her voice thick and her words slurred, the blood in her mouth making her tongue heavy and unwieldy. “I got blood on my hands, and your _help_ and your pity won’t get rid of it.” Buffy swings her fist down again, but this time, it lands in the dirt beside Faith’s head.

“Stop it,” Buffy says, and suddenly, Faith sees that Buffy’s crying. “ _Stop_ it.” Faith flinches slightly as a few of Buffy’s tears land on her face, tiny puddles forming on her already bruising skin.

“Stop what?” Faith says. She can’t get that awful grin off her face, even as it twists into an angry, painful grimace. “Stop tellin’ you the truth?”

“Stop trying to make me _hate_ you!” Buffy’s voice is rough with tears. That’s the last straw for Faith. She sits up hard and lashes out with her palms, sending an unprepared Buffy flying backwards. Buffy’s back slams into the only tree in the modest yard, and Faith leaps after her, catching her by the front of her shirt and pinning her up against the rough bark.

“I’m not _trying_ anything, B,” she says, blood beginning to run down her chin. “I was evil. I killed people. I worked for the Mayor. I was ready to end the damn _world_. And no, I don’t wanna _talk_ about it, because all that darkness? That all came from in here.” She lets go of Buffy’s shirt with her right hand and presses it to her chest. “That was all me. Still is. All that darkness and evil and hatred, it’s still in there, and the more I talk about it, the more it gets out.” Faith lets go of Buffy’s shirt with her left hand as well, and takes a step back. Buffy stays where she is, her back against the tree, her eyes wide as she watches Faith.

“I’m bad,” Faith says, so quietly she herself can barely hear it. She spreads her arms helplessly, meeting Buffy’s gaze. “You hear that? I’m bad, Buffy. I’m a bad person. I’m bad. I’m…” Her voice cuts out for a moment, dying in her throat. Buffy steps away from the tree, narrowing the distance between them. They stand like that for a moment, eyes locked

Finally, Faith half-whispers, “You still want me?”

Buffy says nothing, and after a moment, Faith turns and walks away into the night.

* * *

She’ll go back to New Mexico.

That’s what Faith decides while she’s walking back to Joyce’s house. She’ll go back to Roswell, tell Roberts the prophecy isn’t hers after all. She’ll start working in the bakery again, and move back into her apartment. Start dating someone. Change her name, maybe; it’s not as though she has any legal documents under this one. She’ll—she’ll be _normal_ , have a normal life. She’ll stop carrying at least three deadly weapons every time she goes outside, stop fighting vampires, stop worrying about the end of the world. She’ll forget she ever met Buffy.

It’s that thought that shatters Faith’s fantasy. She could never forget about Buffy.

Still, even if the fantasy of a normal life, one without the weight of Slayerhood on her shoulders, is nothing but a fever dream, Faith can’t stay.

The lights are off in the house when Faith comes in. The front door is unlocked, which irks the instincts Faith gained from a childhood in the city, but this is Sunnydale. The only things that need to be kept out can’t cross the threshold anyway.

Faith walks upstairs with none of her usual stealth. She can’t muster the concentration right now to keep her footsteps light and soundless. She half-stumbles down the hall to the room that’s been hers for the past month, one hand pressed against the wall for support.

Her duffel bag is still under the bed, and Faith pulls it out, tossing it onto the covers. She pulls open the top drawer of the dresser she’s been using and starts pulling her clothes out, handfuls at a time, ruining their careful folds.

(Roberts had taught her how to fold her clothes. She had never learned before. She’s never had the space or the time to bother. She’s always had to be ready to pick up and leave at a moment’s notice. Before Roswell, most of her clothes hadn’t left her bag in years, other than to be washed or worn.)

Faith slams the empty drawer shut and opens the next one down. Her hands are shaking as she reaches in, grabbing blindly at her clothes. Outside of the room, the hall light flicks on, and Faith realizes absently that she hasn’t turned the bedroom light on. She’s been packing by the moonlight coming in the window. Joyce appears in the doorway in her pajamas, blinking and squinting sleepily.

“Faith?” she says, rubbing at her eyes. “What are you doing?” Faith shakes her head, wordless. Joyce looks around the room, her gaze landing on the open drawer, the half-filled duffel bag lying unzipped on the bed. “Oh, honey,” Joyce whispers, stepping into the bedroom. “What happened?” Faith shakes her head again, still unable to find words. Joyce steps closer, setting a hand on Faith’s shoulder and guiding her away from the dresser. Faith follows her, and Joyce sits them both down on the edge of the bed. “Faith,” Joyce says gently. Her hand flits up from Faith’s shoulder to brush a strand of hair behind Faith’s ear. “Talk to me.”

“I—“ Faith’s throat is dry. She swallows hard, and it feels like swallowing sand. “She doesn’t want me here,” she whispers. “She doesn’t—“

“Buffy?” Joyce asks, and Faith nods. Joyce gently wipes at Faith’s cheek, and Faith realizes suddenly that she’s crying, that she’s _been_ crying for…she doesn’t know how long.

“She doesn’t want me here,” Faith repeats. “B—Buffy, she doesn’t…she doesn’t want me.” She looks up at Joyce through her tears. Joyce is looking at her sadly, sympathetically. “She doesn’t want me, Mrs. S. She doesn’t want me.”

“Did she say that?” Joyce asks.

“She didn’t say anything.” Faith shrugs. “But it means the same thing, doesn’t it?”

“Where are you planning to go?” Joyce asks.

“Home.” Faith sniffs and wipes at her face. Her tears are fading, and she feels more embarrassed over crying than anything now. 

“Roswell?” Joyce says. Faith nods. “Well, if you really want to leave, I can’t stop you. But…if it means anything, I’d miss you. I like having you around.”

“ _Why_?” Faith asks. Joyce half-shrugs.

“You’re funny,” she says, “and you can be kind when you want to. You’re saving me a lot of money on bread.” Faith half-smiles. “You don’t force a conversation if you don’t have anything to say,” Joyce continues. “I haven’t met very many people who are good at silence.”

“That’s—I learned that from someone,” Faith says, thinking of the long hours in the bakery with Roberts in the early morning, neither of them speaking, just working in tandem. She had learned quickly to enjoy the silence, rather than waiting for it to be broken. “You can’t give me credit for that.”

“Too bad,” Joyce says. “You’re getting credit.” She rubs small circles on Faith’s back with one hand. “I’ll tell you what,” she says. “Just stay till morning, alright? Stay here tonight, and if you still want to leave in the morning, I won’t stop you.”

“Deal,” Faith says. Joyce smiles. She leans in and kisses Faith’s forehead.

“Good night, Faith,” she says, standing up.

“Good night,” Faith echoes as Joyce leaves the room. The hall lights click off, and Faith hears Joyce’s bedroom door close. She kicks off her boots and sets her duffel bag, still half-packed, on the floor next to the bed. Suddenly, she’s more tired than she’s been since she fled Sunnydale, since that night she met Roberts in the alley behind the bakery.

Faith curls up on her side, still in her jeans, on top of the covers, and falls asleep in moments.

* * *

Buffy sits against the tree outside Oz’s house, staring at the street that Faith had disappeared down, until the sun starts to peek over the horizon. She feels frozen in place, trapped, like an insect in amber. The cuts left on her body by the broken window heal, her skin itching and burning as it regrows inhumanly fast, but she doesn’t move to scratch at them, to alleviate her discomfort. She just sits there, Faith’s words playing over and over again in her head.

_You still want me_?

It’s a yes-or-no question, but Buffy doesn’t have a yes-or-no answer.

Finally, as the sky begins to lighten, Willow comes out of the house. She—Buffy has a hard time thinking of her as _she_ , or even as _Willow_ , in Oz’s body—crosses the small yard, skirting around the pile of broken glass from the window.

“Buffy,” Willow says as she approaches. Finally, Buffy tears her gaze from the street, looking up at Willow. “What happened? The house is wrecked.”

“Faith happened,” Buffy says. She slowly pushes herself to her feet, her knees stiff from sitting all night. Willow’s eyes go wide. It’s almost comical, seeing that much shock and emotion on Oz’s face, but unfortunately, Buffy isn’t in any mood to see the humor in it. “But I’m…I’m pretty sure it was my fault, this time.” Willow looks askance at her, but Buffy doesn’t explain herself. “Where’s Veruca?”

“She took off as soon as she woke up.” Willow’s eyebrows are drawn together, the corner of her mouth turned downwards, and Buffy recognizes the look, even on Oz’s face, as Willow’s worried frown.

“What’s wrong?” Buffy says. “I mean, besides the obvious body-swapping and werewolf-dom.”

“I…” Willow sighs. “I know Oz would never cheat on me, but—I don’t know, I thought maybe—maybe his werewolf instincts were…drawing him to Veruca, somehow. Maybe that was why he was being so distant.”

“But?” Buffy says.

“But,” Willow says, “in his body, I have the wolf, and all the instincts and—weirdness that goes with it. And there’s nothing. Nothing drawing me to Veruca. The wolf isn’t even _interested_ in her.” She shrugs. “Whatever’s going on with Oz, it’s not that.”

“And that means no easy answers,” Buffy says quietly. Willow nods. “But that’s good, right? It means whatever’s going on with Oz, he’s in control of it. So you guys can work it out.”

“I hope so.” Willow shoves her hands in her pockets. “We have a meeting at Giles’s, right?” Buffy blinks.

“We do?”

“We planned it yesterday,” Willow says. “To try to sort out—this.” She gestures at her—Oz’s—chest.

“Must’ve been while I was looking for Faith,” Buffy says. “Let’s go.” Willow pulls a set of keys out of her pocket, and Buffy gives her a _look_.

“What?” Willow says. “Oz has a driver’s license and a van, and I have his face.”

“ _You_ don’t have a driver’s license,” Buffy points out. Willow shrugs.

“How hard can it be?”

As it turns out, the answer is _very hard_.

(And Buffy thought _she_ was a bad driver.)

By some miracle, they make it Giles’ apartment without killing themselves or anyone else. Still, Buffy feels a bit nauseous when she gets out of the van, but she doesn’t mention it to Willow, who looks more than a little sick herself. Buffy has never seen Oz’s face that pale before.

“You could knock,” Giles says dryly from the kitchen as Willow and Buffy walk into the apartment. Oz, in Willow’s body, is already there, and he immediately leaps up from the couch to approach Willow.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Buffy asks Giles.

“Are you okay?” Oz asks Willow quietly, resting his hands on her forearms. “Was the shift…”

“Hurt a lot,” Willow says. “But I’m okay.” Oz half-smiles, and it’s almost disturbing to see the expression on Willow’s face. Buffy isn’t used to seeing any kind of reservation on her best friend’s face.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Oz says. “I would kiss you, but I haven’t decided yet if that would be narcissistic.” Willow smiles fondly.

“It would be kinda weird,” she agrees. “We should just…” She holds out her arms, and they embrace tightly. Buffy feels a bit weird watching, so she turns back to Giles.

“Do you know anything about this body-swap thing?” she asks. He shakes his head, pouring himself a cup of tea.

“I’ve heard of spells with similar effects,” he says. “But none involving objects like that one.” He nods towards the living room, and Buffy glances over her shoulder to see that the strange object responsible for the entire situation is sitting on the coffee table.

The door opens again before Buffy can ask if they have a plan yet. Xander enters the apartment, and Willow and Oz break apart.

“Hey, Wil,” he says.

“Hi,” Willow says. Xander blinks at her, clearly aware of but disoriented by the whole body-swap situation. She smiles at him and does a little wave, and the gesture is so _Willow_ that it makes Buffy’s head hurt, coming from Oz’s body.

Xander is clearly of the same opinion, as he announces, “Okay, so that’s weird. What are we doing to fix it?”

“Haven’t decided yet,” Buffy says. Xander looks over at her, then glances around the apartment, his expression tense, almost defensive.

“No Faith today?” he says.

“No Faith,” Buffy confirms, choosing not to expand on _that_ particular situation. Xander nods, his jaw relaxing somewhat. “I thought you two called a truce, anyway,” she says.

“We did.” Xander doesn’t elaborate, and Buffy files his odd behavior away for later examination. “So what are we gonna do?” he asks the room at large.

“Research?” Buffy suggests, looking over Giles.

“We can try.” He adjusts his glasses. “Though I’m not particularly optimistic about our chances of finding anything useful.”

“Well, I would offer suggestions, but this isn’t exactly my area of expertise,” Buffy says. She glances around the room. “Anyone?” Willow has a _look_ on her face, and Buffy raises her eyebrows at her. “Willow?”

“I…” She glances around the room. “It’s a long shot, but there’s this Wicca club at school I’ve been meaning to go to. They’re meeting today. Maybe someone there would be able to help?”

“It’s worth a shot.” Buffy nods decisively. “Alright, Willow, you go to that and see if you can learn anything useful or find anyone to help. I’ll—“

“I don’t think it should be me,” Willow interrupts. Buffy frowns at her.

“What do you mean?” she says. “You’re the only one who knows much about magic.”

“Well, yeah, but—“ Willow hesitates. “I would sort of—stick out. It’s all girls in the group.” Buffy looks Willow up and down, at her baggy jeans, plaid overshirt, Oz’s beard.

“Fair point,” Buffy concedes. “Oz, you go instead.” Oz nods. “Giles, do some research, see if you can find anything. Xander, ask Anya if she knows anything. She’s been alive for, what, a thousand years?”

“Something like that,” Xander says.

“Maybe she’s seen something like this,” Buffy says. “Or—I don’t know, cursed someone with it? Either way, she might know something. Willow…I don’t know. Break the news to Oz’s roommates about the window?” Willow looks distinctly unhappy with that assignment, but nods in agreement.

“What are you gonna do?” Xander asks. Buffy takes a deep breath and lets it out.

“I’m gonna find Faith.” Xander’s jaw clenches, but he nods in acquiescence. “First, though…I need to talk to you,” Buffy says. She glances around the room at everyone else. “Just you.” With a few murmured goodbyes, the rest of the group files out. Buffy pointedly glances at Giles.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Buffy,” Giles says. “It _is_ my house.”

“Please?” Buffy says. Giles sighs heavily, stepping out of the kitchen and heading for the stairs.

“Don’t mind me,” he says as he ascends. “I’ll just be hiding in my own home. _Teenagers_.” Buffy waits for his footsteps to leave the stairs and start into his bedroom before she turns to Xander, smiling uncertainly. He’s watching her, arms crossed, a guarded look in his eyes.

“What did Faith tell you?” he asks, before Buffy can say anything. Buffy blinks at him, confused.

“Tell me?” she says. “She said you had a truce, and that it was your idea. Why?”

“No reason.” Buffy stares at him for a moment, utterly confused, but Xander doesn’t seem like he’s going to offer an explanation any time soon, or even put his foot in his mouth like he usually does.

“I just…wanted to apologize,” Buffy says eventually. “For what I said at the Halloween party.” Xander looks away. “You do contribute, alright? You matter, and I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Xander says after a moment. “I just—why would you say that stuff? For _Faith_?” He shakes his head.

“Xander…”

“I don’t _get_ why you’re so ready to trust her again,” he says. “She doesn’t deserve it.”

“It’s not _about_ that,” Buffy says. “I—“ She shakes her head. “Look, I’m not gonna change your mind about her, and you’re not going to change mine. So can we just drop it? Move on?” Xander considers it for a moment, his jaw set angrily.

“I’ll tell you the same thing I told Faith,” he says eventually. “We can drop it until the prophecy’s done. After that…” He shrugs.

“Fair enough.” Buffy half-smiles at him. “Other than that, are we good?” Slowly, Xander nods.

“Yeah. Yeah, we’re good, Buffy.”

* * *

“Hey.” Oz hurries after the blonde girl from the Wicca group—Tara, he thinks her name is. He catches her more easily than he expected. Willow’s legs are longer than his own, and his longer strides bring him up alongside Tara quickly as he follows her down the hall. “Hey, wait up a second.” She stops, turning to look at him. “Tara, right?”

“Y-yeah,” she says, dipping her head. Her hair falls across her face, half-hiding her expression. “And you’re Willow.”

“That’s right,” Oz says, a moment too slow. He had introduced himself as Willow at the Wicca group, figuring that, if she decided to go back, it would be easier if everyone knew her under the right name—though now, after sitting through a meeting, Oz doubts Willow will be interested in attending. “That group was pretty lame, huh?” Tara says nothing, her head staying down, and Oz tries again. “It seemed like none of them really knew what they were doing.” Still, no response. “But you’re the real thing, right? A real witch?”

“…y-yes,” Tara says, almost a whisper. “Are you, too?”

“No,” Oz says. “Well, not exactly. It’s complicated. My girlfriend is.” That makes Tara raise her head and look at him in surprise. Belatedly, Oz remembers that he’s a girl at the moment, and that _girlfriend_ has different connotations because of it. “My—friend who is a girl,” he backtracks. “Girl-space-friend, not girlfriend, one word.”

“It’s okay,” Tara says, half-smiling. “I’m not—I don’t a have a p-problem with that, or anything.”

“Neither do I,” Oz says. _This is not going well_. “I mean, I—I’m glad you don’t, but it’s not like that. Well, it is like that, but I’m not gay.” Tara looks at him blankly. Oz sighs heavily. Willow’s foot-in-mouth disease is a physical affliction, apparently. “Look, this isn’t my body.”

“Not your body?” Tara echoes, frowning.

“No.” Oz goes to run a hand through his hair, only to find it much longer than he’s used to. He gives up, dropping his hand back to his side. “This is my girlfriend’s body.” Tara doesn’t look any less confused. “It’s a long story, but—me and my girlfriend accidentally swapped bodies, and we don’t know how to fix it. And I’m a guy, so—not gay.”

“That explains it,” Tara says, a look of realization spreading across her face. Oz blinks at her. It doesn’t explain much of anything to him. “Your aura,” Tara clarifies. “It’s all…” She gestures vaguely. “It doesn’t fit right,” she says, which doesn’t mean much to Oz, but he takes her word for it. “If your soul is in the wrong body, that would explain it.”

“Huh.” Oz isn’t even entirely sure what an aura is, but he decides that that question can wait. “So, do you think you can help?”

“Maybe,” Tara says thoughtfully. “Come on. I have magic stuff in my dorm, we can try to work it out there.” She starts down the hall, and Oz follows her.

“You said your girlfriend is a witch?” Tara asks after a minute, as they leave the building and start across the campus towards the dorms. Oz nods. “That’s good, I might need her help. Messing with souls is…” She shrugs. “Complicated.”

“I can call her,” Oz says. He reaches for his cell phone, but it’s not in his front pocket like it usually is, because his front pockets on these jeans can fit about three pennies and half a stick of gum.

He really hates girls’ jeans.

“Do that,” Tara says. “I’m not—that t-talented, I could use a second opinion.”

“If you’ve got any idea how to fix this, you’re already doing better than the rest of us,” Oz says as he pulls his cell phone from his back pocket.

“Us?” Tara asks. “Are there a lot of witches here?”

“Not witches.” Oz has to push his hair out of the way before he holds the cell phone up to his ear, and he wonders how Willow puts up with long hair, even with how short she had cut it over the summer. “It’s—I’ll fill you in later, alright?” The phone is ringing on the other end of the line.

“Alright,” Tara says, trepidation in her voice. Momentarily, Oz feels a bit bad for her. She doesn’t know what she’s getting into. But then, neither did he, when he first got involved with Willow and her friends, and no matter what happens after he and Willow get back in their correct bodies, he thinks it’s been worth it.

* * *

Faith takes another t-shirt out of her duffel bag, folding it carefully and setting it on the stack of clothes on her bed. She hasn’t decided yet where the stack will go—back in the dresser to stay, or arranged in her duffel bag for the bus ride back to New Mexico.

There’s a knock on the doorframe from behind her, and Faith turns around. She’s not surprised to see Buffy standing there. Faith had heard her coming up the stairs, her footsteps too purposefully light to be Joyce. Buffy moves the same way Faith does—automatically stealthily, like she’s always hiding from something, or hunting something down.

“Here to kick me out?” Faith says, turning back to her duffel bag. Buffy shifts her weight back and forth before

“I’m—“ Buffy clears her throat. “I’m here to apologize,” she says, “for last night. Are you—you’re packing.”

“ _Un_ packing.” Faith sets her last t-shirt on top of the stack and turns around to meet Buffy’s gaze. “I was gonna take off last night. Your mom stopped me.”

“So you’re staying?” Buffy steps into the room and settles back against the wall next to the door.

“I don’t know.” Faith shoves her hands in her pockets, looking past Buffy into the hall. “Do you want me to?”

“Yeah,” Buffy says, a sort of hesitant determination in her voice. “I do. Faith, I—fighting or not, I don’t want you to leave. That’s giving up, and I’m not giving up on—on you.”

“Aren’t you?” Faith says. She returns Buffy’s gaze for a moment, but she can’t hold it for long. “Cause last night…” She trails off. Buffy steps forward off the wall. She grabs the chair from the small desk in the room and sits down, resting her elbows on her knees.

“That’s not—I shouldn’t have let that happen,” Buffy says. “It was—I don’t know. Maybe it was inevitable, you know? Like, we can’t just be okay. It’s not that easy.” Faith nods slowly. “Or maybe not, but—either way, it wasn’t okay. That’s not how I want to deal with our problems.”

“Me, neither,” Faith admits. She sits down on the edge of the bed, mirroring Buffy’s posture. “That shit’s not gonna solve anything. I just—you grabbed me, and I threw you on instinct, and then…old habits die hard, I guess.”

“Let’s not let it happen again,” Buffy says. “Deal?” She holds out a hand. Faith reaches out and takes it.

“Deal.”

“Good.” Buffy releases Faith’s hand. “Can we talk about why it happened?”

“We could also _not_.”

“Faith.” Buffy is half-smiling, but she has that determined look in her eyes, and Faith knows she isn’t getting out of this. “Every time I bring up last year or this past spring, you just—you get so _mad_. You lash out, even if we’re doing good otherwise.”

“Yeah, well, there’s a pattern there,” Faith says. “Seems like an easy fix to me.”

“I can’t just stop _asking_.”

“Why the hell not, B?” Faith finally meets Buffy’s eyes.

“Because,” Buffy says, “I’m trying to understand.” She reaches out and sets a hand on Faith’s knee. Faith has to consciously prevent herself from tensing under Buffy’s palm. “If I understand why it all happened, I think I’ll be able to forgive you.” Suddenly there’s a buzzing in Faith’s ears. She can feel her heartbeat in every inch of her body.

“I didn’t know forgiveness was on the table,” Faith says, the words sounding distant in her own ears. Buffy smiles, and Faith’s heart stumbles and lurches.

“Neither did I,” Buffy admits. “But the more I understand, the more I think it is.” Faith nods slowly. Her throat is dry, her palms sweating.

“You can’t—“ She swallows hard. “You can’t _push_ , Buffy. I can’t handle that.”

“I noticed,” Buffy says dryly. Faith manages a half-smile in response. “But do you think, when you’re ready, you’ll talk to me about it all?”

“That’s—“ Faith shakes her head. “I’m never gonna be _ready_ , B. Last year—all the shit I did, everything I was thinking—it’s not the kinda stuff you can _be_ ready for.” Buffy squeezes her knee lightly, reassuringly. “Give me time,” Faith says. “I’ll—I’ll tell you about it in my own time. Ready or not.”

“Okay.” Buffy smiles at her. “Hey, look at us. Talking about our problems like grown ups.” Faith lets out a long breath.

“Fighting was a lot easier,” she says. Buffy snorts.

“I’m going to go check in with Willow and Oz,” she says, standing up. Her hand slips off of Faith’s knee, and Faith misses the contact immediately. “See if they un-swapped yet. But, Faith, I’m glad we talked about this. Alright?” Faith nods. “Come to the Bronze tonight. We’re all hanging out.”

“B…” Faith shakes her head. “Your friends don’t want me there.”

“ _I_ want you there.” Buffy smiles at her. “I’ll see you there?” Slowly, Faith nods.

“Yeah. I’ll see you,” she says.

“And, Faith?” Buffy hesitates for a moment, uncertain.

“Yeah?”

“Just…what the Mayor said in that video…that you don’t have a place in this world anymore.” Buffy takes a deep breath. “That’s not true. You know that’s not true, right?” Faith thinks of Roberts, of New Mexico, of the bakery and the desert and, for once in her life, standing still. 

“I know, B.”

“Good.” Buffy nods. “I’ll see you tonight, then.”

“See you,” Faith says, and Buffy leaves the room. Immediately, Faith lets herself fall backwards, collapsing onto her back on the bed. She closes her eyes, taking deep breaths and trying to slow her racing heart.

“Faith?” It’s Joyce this time, from the doorway. “Was that Buffy?”

“Yep,” Faith says. She doesn’t sit up. She doesn’t even open her eyes.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” Faith opens her eyes, looking up at the bedroom ceiling. “I just…everything is so much _harder_ than I thought it would be.”

“Growing up usually is,” Joyce says. “Vampire Slayer or not.” She walks away. Faith listens to her footsteps heading down the hall. She lies there and counts to a hundred, breathing in and out slowly, before she sits up.

She needs to go to Giles’ place. She has a prophecy to lie-by-omission about.

* * *

“You have so many _books_ ,” Willow says, running her fingers along the spines of the books on the shelf excitedly. “Giles doesn’t even have this many spell books!” Tara half-smiles shyly from where she’s sitting on her bed.

“And Giles is the W-watcher,” she says, glancing at Oz, who is sitting on the floor, for confirmation. Oz nods silently.

“He knows some magic, too,” Willow says, turning away from the bookshelf. “He had a rebellious demon-summoning youth. But you know so _much_!”

“Not really,” Tara murmurs, ducking her head. “I’m not that good.”

“Are you kidding?” Willow gestures at herself—at her _own_ body, with her own soul in it, not Oz’s. “You fixed this!”

“You helped,” Tara says. Willow steps across the dorm room and sits down next to Tara on her bed.

“Oh, come on,” Willow says. “Give yourself some credit, you were amazing.” Tara blushes slightly, keeping her eyes down. “We should do spells together all the time! It’s so much cooler with a partner.”

“Hey, Wil?” Oz says from behind them. He pushes himself to his feet— _his_ feet, instead of Willow’s. Willow looks over at him. “I’m gonna go to Giles’s, let him know what’s going on. I’ll see you tonight?”

“Tonight,” Willow agrees. Oz presses a kiss to the top of her head and leaves the room. Willow turns back to Tara. Not even the strange distance between herself and Oz can bring her down right now, not with the leftover buzz of magic still running through her veins. “So? What do you say? You wanna do magic together sometime?”

“I—sure,” Tara says. “I don’t know what you need m-me for, though.” Willow frowns at her.

“What do you mean?” she says. “Of course I need you. You figured out how to un-swap me and Oz, you’re way better at this stuff than me.”

“Well, you might not have had the spell for it,” Tara says. “But you had the raw power. I don’t.” Willow looks at her blankly, and Tara elaborates. “Willow, you have the most magical potential I’ve ever seen.”

“Huh.” Willow considers that for a moment. She certainly doesn’t _feel_ especially magical. “So I’m strong?”

“More than strong,” Tara says. “You’re exceptional.” She frowns. “You didn’t know? Whoever’s teaching you should’ve noticed.”

“I’m teaching myself,” Willow says. “But now you can teach me. Right?”

“Oh, I don’t think I’m qualified,” Tara says. At Willow’s disappointed look, she quickly continues, “B-but I can try.”

“Awesome!” Willow does an excited sort of shimmy thing, still a bit deliriously happy from the magic in her veins. “Hey, do you want to come to the Bronze with me tonight?”

“Tonight?” Tara says. “That wasn’t a d-date?”

“A date?” It clicks after a moment—Oz saying _I’ll see you tonight_. “Oh! No, it’s, like, a group hang thing. You could come meet Buffy, and Xander, and Anya, I guess. And maybe Faith, too.”

“Faith,” Tara echoes. “The other Slayer. The one who’s…”

“Kinda nuts,” Willow completes. “Yeah. But don’t worry! She’s better now. Kind of. Not homicidal at least?”

“I don’t know.” Tara looks down, her hair falling in front of her face. “People are…hard for me. Especially when there’s a lot of them.”

“Hey, that’s okay.” Willow smiles at her encouragingly. “You don’t have to go. But I think everyone will like you. I already do.” Tara smiles, hugging her knees to her chest.

“Okay,” she says. “I’ll go.”

* * *

“I’ll get us drinks,” Faith says as she and Buffy walk into the Bronze side by side. Buffy nods, heading off for an unoccupied booth, and Faith heads to the bar instead. When she gets there, though, she’s surprised to find herself standing next to Oz, who is holding an untouched soda.

“It you in there, Wolf Boy?” Faith asks after she orders her drinks. Oz glances up at her.

“It’s me,” he says.

“Where’s Red?” Oz gestures to the dance floor. Faith follows the gesture with her gaze, and spots Willow on the outskirts of the dance floor, half-dancing and half-standing with an unfamiliar blonde girl. “Who’s the blonde chick?”

“That’s Tara,” Oz says, and Faith turns back to him. “She’s a witch. She helped un-swap me and Willow. Willow brought her to meet everyone, but Xander didn’t show because…” He trails off, but Faith knows where he’s going.

“Because I’m here,” she completes. “Huh.” The bartender sets Faith and Buffy’s drinks down in front of her, but Faith doesn’t pick them up just yet. “Shouldn’t you be with your girl?” Oz doesn’t answer for a moment, just stares out at the dance floor.

“I’m not sure she’s my girl anymore,” he says eventually, and Faith is surprised to find that her stomach clenches mournfully in response.

“Sorry,” she says, unsure what else to say.

“Don’t be.” Oz takes a sip of his soda. “It’s gonna be my choice.” He turns away from the dance floor and looks back at Faith. “Something’s…different, with me. And I think I need to leave to figure out what.”

“Leave?”

“Leave Sunnydale.” Oz gestures around. “All of it. I need to…”

“Run,” Faith says. Oz nods. “Can I give you some advice?” Oz makes a _go ahead_ gesture. “I know a thing or two about running away. When you do, you gotta _run_. No loose ends, nothin’ left behind. Otherwise you end up right back where you started.” She gestures at herself. “Case in point.”

“A clean break, then,” Oz says. “No asking Willow to wait for me. No promising to wait for her. Just…run.”

“You’re a smart guy, Oz,” Faith says. “You know you’re gonna break her heart.”

“Gonna break my own, too,” he says. “Believe me, I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t have to. But she’ll survive. We both will.” Faith finally picks up her drinks off the bar.

“Then I guess I’ll see you around,” she says. “Whenever.”

“See you.” Faith starts to turn away. “Hey, Faith?” She glances back at Oz. “You say you’re different now, I believe you.” He shrugs. “Just thought you should know.” Faith smiles.

“Thanks, man. Good luck running. I hope you figure your shit out.” Oz raises his soda in acknowledgement, and Faith walks away.

“What took you so long?” Buffy says. Faith slips into the booth across from her and slides her drink across the table.

“Ran into Oz,” Faith says. She glances back at the bar, but Oz isn’t there anymore. A quick scan of the room finds him heading for the door, Willow at his side. “I don’t think he’s gonna be around much longer.” Buffy nods slowly. She doesn’t seem particularly surprised.

“That’s going to tear Willow apart,” she says.

“I don’t know.” It will hurt her, of course; that’s inevitable, but… “Red’s tougher than she looks. She’s managed to put up with me comin’ back, she’ll make it through this.” Faith looks out at the dance floor, where the blonde girl—Tara—is now standing alone, off to the side, holding her arms awkwardly. “‘Sides, she’s got a new friend.” Faith waves at Tara, catching her eye. Tara looks at her with wide, confused eyes. Faith makes eye contact and waves again.

“Faith?” Buffy says, frowning at her. “What are you doing?” Tara, across the room, points at herself in question. Faith nods and makes a _come here_ gesture. Hesitantly, Tara begins to walk across the room. “Who are you—“ Buffy looks over her shoulder and sees Tara approaching them. “Who’s that?”

“Red’s new friend,” Faith says. Tara stops in front of their booth, shifting her weight uncertainly. “Hey,” Faith says to her. “Tara, right? You helped fix Willow and Oz?”

“Y-yeah,” Tara half-says, half-whispers.

“I’m Faith.” Faith points at Buffy. “That’s Buffy. And I’m guessing by the abject terror in your eyes right now that Red filled you in on me.”

“Red—“ It takes Tara a moment to translate the nickname, but it clicks after a moment. “Um. S-sort of? She said you were…better now.”

“Did she?” Buffy says, shooting Faith an _I told you so_ look.

“Kind of,” Tara says. “She said you weren’t k-killing people anymore.”

“I’m not,” Faith says. “Promise.” She scoots farther into the booth. “You wanna sit until Red gets back?” Tara hesitates, and Faith grins at her. “I swear I won’t kill you.”

“ _Faith_.” Buffy gives her an exasperated look, and smiles politely at Tara. “She’s just being an asshole. You’re fine.” Tara sits down next to Faith, somehow managing to settle back into the booth and still look monumentally uncomfortable.

“So you guys are Vampire Slayers?” Tara says, glancing between the two of them. “I didn’t know those were real. And I thought there was supposed to be just one.”

“We’re real,” Buffy says, nodding authoritatively.

“There’s only supposed to be one,” Faith says, nodding at Buffy. “She died a couple years ago, another one got Called.”

“Kendra,” Buffy supplies, a moment of grief flashing across her face when she says the name.

“Kendra,” Faith repeats. “Then she got killed, and voila. Here I am.”

“You…died?” Tara says, looking at Buffy.

“Only a little bit,” Buffy says. She’s about to explain when Willow appears at the side of their booth. None of them had noticed her approach, Faith’s—and presumably Buffy’s—Slayer senses overwhelmed by the noise and crowd in the room.

“Willow?” Tara says, looking up at her with concern. Willow is crying, and Faith finds her chest aching in sympathy.

“Hi, guys,” Willow says. She smiles, and it’s so clearly forced that Faith has to avert her eyes. “Oz is—he’s leaving.”

“Oh, Wil.” Buffy stands and wraps her arms around Willow, pulling her close. Willow doesn’t respond to the contact, neither returning it or pushing Buffy away. “When does he leave?” Buffy asks, releasing Willow but staying close to her.

“Now,” Willow says. She sounds almost shell-shocked, blank and empty.

“Now?” Buffy repeats, shaking her head slightly in confusion.

“Now.” Willow shrugs. “He’s gone.” Her blank mask cracks, and a fresh wave of tears begins to fall from her eyes. “He’s _gone_ , Buffy.” Tara shifts uncomfortably beside Faith. Faith shares the sentiment; this isn’t something she should be watching. The pain in Willow’s face, in her voice—six months ago, Faith would’ve pretended to enjoy it, pretended it was entertaining. Now, she just wants Willow to stop crying.

“I’m sorry.” It’s still Willow talking, but now she’s looking at Tara. “Sorry, I—I wanted you to meet everyone, and instead I abandoned you, and now I’m—I’m not much fun, huh?“

“It’s okay,” Tara says, getting to her feet. She sets a hand on Willow’s arm and offers her a small smile. “It’s okay, it’s not your fault.” Willow nods, sniffling and wiping at her eyes. “I’ll walk you home, okay?”

“Okay,” Willow says. “I’m sorry.” Tara shakes her head, shushing Willow gently.

“It was nice to meet you guys,” she says to Buffy and Faith before gently leading Willow away.

“She seems sweet,” Buffy says, watching Willow and Tara make their way through the crowded room towards the door. Faith nods.

“Not really in a mood for dancing anymore,” she says, changing the subject.

“You wanna patrol instead?” Buffy asks, picking up her purse. “I’ve got an extra stake, I think.”

* * *

They pick the cemetery nearest to campus, which is far enough away that, by the time they arrive, the sun has disappeared completely beneath the horizon. It’s a quiet night; they don’t see a single vampire for the first twenty minutes.

“ _There_ ,” Faith hisses, ducking behind a tree and pulling Buffy with her. There’s a vampire a hundred feet away or so, walking quickly through the rows of headstones.

“What is he _wearing_?” Buffy whispers back as they start to trail the vampire, maintaining their distance, moving parallel to his path. He’s in a uniform of some sort—heavy boots, simple grey pants and jacket, with an insignia of some sort on the sleeve that Faith can’t make out from this distance.

“Looks almost…military?” Faith frowns. “Whatever it is, I think we should hold off on the Slayage.” Buffy shoots her a strange look, so Faith elaborates. “Look at the way he’s moving. He’s not hunting, he’s going somewhere. If someone’s decking out vamps in uniforms and giving them orders, don’t you wanna find out why?”

“Fair point.”

They trail the vampire for several minutes, out of the cemetery and onto campus. Faith is boring of the chase; odd clothing and behavior or not, her stake hand is getting itchy.

Buffy seems to be thinking along the same lines, because she says, “If he doesn’t do something interesting soon, I’ll—“ She cuts herself off as the small patch of forest next to the vampire explodes into motion.

“What the fuck?” Faith whispers. Five or six men—humans—in camouflage clothing jump out of the trees, surrounding the vampire. The vampire barely has time to react before three of the men are firing their weapons at him, riddling him with small darts, and two more are pulling a net over his head. The vampire struggles for several seconds before collapsing to the ground, unconscious. The camouflaged men pick him up, still in the net, and vanish back into the forest, one of them talking into a handheld radio. Faith turns back to Buffy, who looks just as confused as Faith feels.

“…what the _fuck_?” Buffy echoes. “That… _that_ was new.” Faith can feel a headache forming. “We should…tell Giles?”

“Yeah.” Faith rubs at the bridge of her nose. “God, B, I really fuckin’ hate your town.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you liked it! i really love that i got to bring in tara earlier than in canon here, though i'm sad to see oz go. again, no spoilers, but you probably haven't seen the last of him ;)
> 
> if it wasn't clear, the timeline notes at the beginning were to clarify that spike is not chipped at this point in time—he's back in town, but still very much dangerous.
> 
> i'm on tumblr @daisys-quake and on twitter @thoughtsintoink! follow me either place for my incoherent screaming about this fic at all hours of the day and night. please leave a comment and kudos if you enjoyed; they're why this fic sees the light of day!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and we're back! not a ton plot-wise actually _happens_ in this chapter, but there are some Developments, for sure. and next chapter is Huge for the plot of the fic, so i'm hoping this will hold y'all over until then. enjoy!
> 
> fair warning, this chapter/fic in general is. not kind to riley. i would try to explore his character despite my overwhelming dislike of him the same way i’m doing for xander, but honestly, i don’t think he has a character to explore. so if you’re a big riley fan i’m sorry dhdjkdksks
> 
> thanks to [rippergiles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rippergiles) for beta reading!

Faith lights six matches before she manages to lower one to the pile of tape in front of her.

It’s the video the Mayor had left for her, unspooled from its plastic container and piled up on the sidewalk outside the Summers house. Buffy had given it back to her a week ago, after they had informed Giles of both the strange vampire and his human kidnappers. She had wanted the fate of the tape to be Faith’s decision. Faith drops the match onto the pile, crouching down to watch as it catches fire, noxious smoke drifting up from the flames.

“Faith?” Faith looks over her shoulder. Joyce is approaching from the house, a confused frown on her face.

“Hey, Mrs. S,” Faiths says, turning back to her fire. “Don’t worry, I’m not practicing for arson or anything.”

“While that’s a relief,” Joyce says, stepping up beside Faith and looking down at the fire, “what exactly _are_ you doing?” Faith stands up, shoving her hands in her pockets and looking down at the fire. It’s smoldering now, most of the tape already reduced to ash and soot.

“ _That_ ,” Faith says, kicking at the ashes, “was a present from the Mayor.”

“The Mayor,” Joyce repeats. “And he was the one who turned into a giant snake at graduation, right?”

“Yep.” Faith makes a face as the breeze carries the smoke from the tape towards her face. “Not my best choice in father figures.” Joyce, used to Faith as she may be at this point, doesn’t even attempt to respond to that. “He left me a message,” Faith says as the ashes start to drift away on the breeze. “Some—revenge plot or something, I don’t know. Didn’t watch it. Got to the bit where he said there wasn’t any place in the world for me without him and decided it was better kindling than movie night entertainment.”

“No place in—“ Joyce sounds _offended_ , angry on Faith’s behalf. “That’s not true.”

“I know.” Faith smiles at her. “Fact is, I have more place in this world than he ever did.”

“I’m going to hug you now,” Joyce announces, and does so. Even with the warning, it takes Faith a moment to register what’s happening. After a moment of stiff confusion, though, Faith slips her hands out of her pockets and returns the hug.

“Good riddance to him, then,” Joyce says when she releases Faith. She aims a kick at the ashes of the video tape, and Faith grins. The more time she spends with Joyce, the more she understands how Buffy turned out so good.

“Well, since you’re in an appreciate-Faith mood,” Faith says, “how do you feel about driving me to campus? I’m supposed to be eating lunch with Buffy.” Joyce gives Faith a _look_ , but digs through her pockets for her car keys anyway.

“I’m glad you and Buffy are getting along,” Joyce says as she pulls the car out of the driveway. Faith opts not to mention the fight, the broken window, and the trashed house from the week before.

Instead, she clears her throat and says, “Me, too. Slaying’s easier when you’re not stabbing your allies, who knew?”

“She never really wanted to fight you, you know,” Joyce continues, turning a corner.

“I know.” Faith traces the scar on her stomach through her shirt absently. That night…the moment Buffy had realized what she had done, the cold determination in her eyes had vanished, replaced by…horror? Grief? Faith doesn’t want to relive the night in enough detail to figure it out.

“She was so upset when you were—“

“Mrs. S,” Faith interrupts. “I don’t—really wanna talk about last year.” Joyce glances over at her, surprised.

“Didn’t you just make a joke about Buffy stabbing you?” she points out. Faith shrugs.

“Jokin’ about it and talking about it are two different things.”

“I suppose,” Joyce says.

“‘Sides,” Faith says, reaching out and turning on the radio, “I promised B I would talk it out with her when—when I can.” She smiles at Joyce. “Don’t worry, I’m not just pretending it never happened.” Joyce hums in acknowledgement, and stops pushing the issue.

The rest of the short car ride passes quietly. Faith mumbles along to the radio, tapping to the beat on the outside of the car door with her fingertips, until Joyce pulls the car up in front of the campus dining hall.

“Will you be home for dinner?” Joyce asks as Faith steps out of the car. Faith leans down, looking through the open passenger seat window.

“Maybe?” Faith makes a face. “I’m gonna go look for a job after lunch, I don’t know how late I’ll be out.”

“A job?” Joyce says, raising her eyebrows.

“Yep.” Faith shrugs. “I need something to do, y’know? ‘Sides, I’m not gonna freeload off you forever.”

“Well,” Joyce says, “good luck with that, then.”

“Thanks, Mrs. S.” Faith straightens up. “I’ll see you around.” Joyce pulls away from the curb, and Faith turns towards the dining hall.

“Faith!” It’s Buffy, coming down the sidewalk and waving at her. Faith allows herself five seconds to be awestruck. Buffy is—she’s like something out of a magazine, all blonde hair and tan skin in the California sun. Faith stares at her until Buffy gets close enough that she can’t get away with it.

“Hey, B,” Faith says, trying for casual.

“Hey.” Buffy stops next to her and gestures towards the dining hall. “Are you sure about this? We can go somewhere else.”

“It’s fine,” Faith says, waving a hand dismissively. “What, you think this is the first time I’ve flirted my way into free food?” Buffy rolls her eyes, half-smiling.

“I don’t know if that’s disturbing or funny,” she says. “Alright, let’s go. If you’re sure.”

They’re a bit early for lunch, so there’s no line when they walk in. Buffy goes first, swiping her meal card and offering the guy manning the card-swiping table a sunny smile. He returns it a moment too late, after Buffy has already swept into the main room of the dining hall. Faith feels a pang of sympathy for the guy. She isn’t exactly operating at full strength when Buffy smiles at her like that, either.

“Hey,” Faith says as she approaches the table, making a subtle show of digging through her pockets. She puts on a look of surprise and disappointment after she’s been through all of them. “Oh, shit,” she says, searching each of her pockets again. The guy eyes her curiously.

“Everything okay?” he asks. Faith lets her hands fall to her sides and shrugs at him.

“I forgot my card,” she says. He bites his lip and makes a sympathetic face.

“Can’t let you in, then,” he says.

“Aw, c’mon.” Faith does her best innocent, clueless, college girl voice. She’s not sure how convincing it is, but the guy doesn’t look suspicious. “Just this once? My friend’s already inside.” The man glances over his shoulder into the dining hall, where Buffy is watching the entire interaction with a look of concern on her face that likely isn’t entirely fake.

“Please?” Faith rests her palms on the edge of the table and leans over it slightly, smiling at the man. “Girl’s gotta eat, you know.” The man looks distinctly uncomfortable, but he glances over his shoulder again before turning back to Faith.

“Just this once,” he says. “Next time don’t forget your card.”

“Thanks, cutie,” Faith says, grinning at him as she steps past him and into the dining hall, catching up with Buffy.

“I don’t know how you pull off stuff like that,” Buffy says as Faith joins her. “I could never.”

“Sure you could,” Faith says, grabbing a lunch tray. “Steps one through nine, be hot, step ten, lie. Ain’t hard, B, you’re already nine-tenths of the way there.” Buffy blushes slightly, shaking her head.

“Just get your lunch,” she says, pushing Faith lightly ahead of her. Faith laughs, but obeys. None of the food looks particularly _good_ , but Faith has eaten much, much worse, and besides, it’s free.

Towards the end of the line, Buffy says, “Oh, _shit_ ,” and Faith turns around curiously. Buffy has somehow managed to break the handle off the frozen yogurt machine, and fro-yo is now pouring all over the counter. Faith snorts.

“You always this destructive when you’re hungry, B?” she asks. Buffy says some sort of quip in response, but Faith’s attention is pulled away before she can listen, drawn to a group of boys sitting at a table across the dining hall—two of whom are definitely checking Buffy out, and a third, a blond guy, who appears to just be watching her destroy school property with an utterly perplexed expression.

“You know those guys, Buffy?” Faith asks as they leave the line, and the destroyed yogurt machine, to sit down. Buffy glances across the cafeteria at the guys in question as they sit.

“Not all of them,” Buffy says. “But the blond guy is Riley. He’s the T.A. in my Psych class.”

“Huh.” Faith turns to her food, but keeps an eye on the group out of the corner of her eye. “He like you or something?”

“Riley?” Buffy shrugs. “I mean, maybe. Wil thinks so. Why?” She glances over her shoulder surreptitiously. “Is he checking me out or something?”

“Nope.” Faith watches Riley carefully. He’s bickering with the other two guys at the table, but Faith doesn’t bother listening in. She doubts it’s anything interesting, anyway. “Disappointed?” Buffy snorts.

“Not even a little bit,” she says, and Faith turns her attention fully to Buffy, ignoring Riley and his friends completely. “I’m not looking for a guy right now,” Buffy continues, shrugging. “I mean, first of all, I don’t have the time. Between class and slaying and the impending apocalypse, when am I gonna go on dates?” She glances over at Riley, who finally seems to notice that both Buffy and Faith are aware of his presence and does an awkward little wave at them. Buffy smiles politely and waves back before she turns back to Faith. “Besides, if I was going to date someone, it definitely wouldn’t be Riley,” she says. “He’s—y’know, he’s normal. I’ve already done the whole dating someone normal and trying to hide the Slaying thing, and…well, you remember how that turned out.”

“I remember.” Faith grins at the memory. She had ruined Scott Hope’s Homecoming pretty effectively. She’s rather proud of it, actually.

“And anyway,” Buffy says, “I’m happy with where I’m at. School, and rooming with Willow, and Slaying with you, it’s all a recipe for a happy Buffy.”

_I make her happy?_

Faith looks down at her lunch, feeling a sudden warmth in her chest—a creeping, soft joy that starts behind her ribcage and spreads out to her fingertips. Rather than voicing it, though, Faith just clears her throat and says, “So has Giles found out anything about our commando buddies?”

“Not a thing. From what we saw and the total lack of anything in any of his books, we’re assuming they’re human.” Buffy shrugs. “He said to keep an eye out for them, but not worry too much.”

“Is that smart?” Faith says, frowning. “Humans can be plenty dangerous. And these ones are live-trapping vamps. We just supposed to not worry about what they’re doing with them?”

“I know, Faith,” Buffy says. “I’m not saying we ignore them. But Giles couldn’t find anything, so there’s not much we can do.”

“We could investigate ourselves,” Faith points out. “Trail a vamp or two, wait for the commandos to show up again. Then we follow them and see what’s going on.”

“I can bring it up with Giles,” Buffy says. “See what he thinks.”

“Why bother?” Faith says. “We can just go do it ourselves. Wasn’t the whole point of you guys ditchin’ the Watchers’ Council that you didn’t have to ask permission for every little thing?”

“Faith…” Buffy has a pinched expression. “The last time you convinced me to—to just go _do_ something, someone died.”

Faith’s plastic knife snaps in two in her fist.

“This is different,” Faith says, looking away.

“Is it?”

“Of course it is,” Faith snaps. “I’m not big with the murder anymore, for one.”

“I’m not saying—“ Buffy takes a deep breath. “It was an accident last time,” she says. “I just—don’t want another accident to ruin…what we’re trying to build here.” She reaches out, setting one hand on top of Faith’s fist, which is still clenched around half of a plastic knife. Slowly, Faith relaxes under the contact.

“Fine.” Faith slips her hand out from under Buffy’s. “Fine, tell Giles if you want. I’ll wait.” Buffy smiles at her, and the sting of her earlier words begins to fade. “So, what else is new?” Faith says, changing the subject. “How’s Red doing? With Wolf Boy gone and all?” Buffy’s smile fades.

“Not great,” she says. Faith is surprised to feel a pang of sympathy and concern in her chest. “She sleeps a lot, and she’s started skipping class.”

“Skipping class?” Faith says, raising her eyebrows. “How _terrible_.”

“Stop,” Buffy says, half smiling and rolling her eyebrows. “It is, for Willow. She had perfect attendance from kindergarten through tenth grade. Even with the after-school demon fighting, she had a 4.0 all through high school.”

“Sounds like she’s takin’ it hard,” Faith says.

“Yeah.” Buffy pushes at her salad with her fork. “I don’t know how to help. I’ve tried inviting her out, bringing her chocolate, all of it. I even brought her a spell book.” She bites her lip, clear concern all over her face. “If magic doesn’t get Willow excited, I don’t know what will.”

“Maybe she just needs a good rebound,” Faith says. “You know, the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.”

“ _Faith_.” Buffy shakes her head in admonishment. “I somehow don’t think that’s gonna appeal to Willow.”

“Maybe not,” Faith concedes. It doesn’t really sound like Willow’s style. “Still, maybe a party or something? She could use some fun, at least.”

“Yeah,” Buffy says. “Yeah, that’s not a bad idea.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, B,” Faith says dryly.

“There’s a party tonight, actually,” Buffy says, ignoring Faith’s comment. “At this one frat—“

“Have we not learned our lesson about frat parties?” Faith says. “After the dashboard demon at the last one?”

“These are supposed to be genuinely nice guys,” Buffy says. “Or at least—not demon summoners or reptile worshipping kidnappers.”

“Reptile—“ Faith doesn’t bother finishing the question. “Whatever. I hope it cheers up Red, at least.”

“Hey, Faith,” Buffy says, frowning at her. “You know you’re invited, right?” Faith hesitates. “No arguing,” Buffy says. “It was your idea, you’re coming.”

“…okay,” Faith says.

“Great!” Buffy gathers up her trash and stands. “Meet me at my dorm at eight?”

“Sure.” Faith stands as well, and they leave the dining hall. They look at each other awkwardly for a moment on the steps outside, and Faith is fairly sure this is where a hug would happen, if she was any of Buffy’s other friends.

“See you,” Faith says instead, and takes off walking down the sidewalk before Buffy can respond. Buffy calls something to the same effect after her, and Faith waves over her shoulder without looking back.

This is a new experience for Faith. Awkwardness has never been a part of her relationship with Buffy. Violence, passion, anger, affection, overt flirting on Faith’s part, sure. But _awkwardness_? Not knowing what to say, how to touch each other? It’s new, and altogether unpleasant.

Faith shakes the thoughts away as she leaves campus and starts walking towards Sunnydale’s downtown. She needs to find a job, not worry about Buffy.

* * *

“Come to class _prepared_ next week,” Professor Walsh says as the students begin to file out of the room. Buffy gathers her things slowly, approaching Walsh’s desk at the front of the room as most of the students leave.

“Hi, Professor Walsh,” Buffy says, putting on her best innocent smile. Walsh doesn’t look affected by it in the least, but Buffy soldiers on anyway. She holds out a folder, full of neatly stapled papers. “These are Willow’s assignments. She should be back in class soon, she's just—having a rough time, lately.” Walsh looks at her for a moment, then turns away, walking behind her desk and sitting down.

“Is Miss Rosenberg seriously injured?” Walsh says. Buffy blinks at her, confused. “Is she bedridden, hospitalized, or otherwise incapacitated?”

“No,” Buffy says, frowning now.

“Then I don’t really care why she isn’t in class,” Walsh says. “And I’m under no obligation to accept her work late.”

“What?” Buffy glances between Walsh and Riley, who is standing a few feet away. He, at least, looks sympathetic, though he says nothing in support of Buffy, or Willow’s case.

“It’s not my job to coddle my students, Miss Summers,” Walsh says. Buffy clenches her jaw for a moment, preventing herself from saying something she’ll regret.

“You’re right, Professor.” She lowers the folder, meeting Walsh’s steely gaze without flinching. “A human being in pain has nothing to do with your job.” With that, Buffy turns and walks away. As she passes Riley, she notices the expression on his face—half awestruck, half turned on.

Willow and Faith were right. There’s definitely _something_ going on there.

Buffy heads back to her dorm room after class. She still needs to break it to Willow that she’s going to be dragged to a party tonight, and that Faith will also be going.

It’s going to be interesting, having both of them there. Willow is…she’s trying, Buffy knows that. But she still gets visibly uncomfortable around Faith, all babbly and anxious. It’s better than Xander, who has made a point of not interacting with or coming near Faith since the night with the Neanderthals and the burning building, but still, it’s not ideal. Hopefully, tonight will help Willow get over it, or at least get used to Faith’s presence.

Willow isn’t alone when Buffy gets to the dorm room. Tara is sitting on the bed with her, and the two of them are surrounded by books, none of which appear to be in English.

“Hey, guys,” Buffy says as she closes the dorm room door behind her. “Doing some magic?”

“Kind of!” Willow is visibly excited for the first time in the week since Oz left, and Buffy makes a mental note to thank Tara for cheering her up later. “Tara’s showing me new meditation techniques. This one breathing pattern, it’s—“

“Wil,” Buffy interrupts. She’s smiling fondly; she hasn’t seen Willow like this in awhile. But either way… “I’ll take your word for it, alright?” Even the sort-of brush off doesn’t bring Willow down. She just nods, still grinning.

“I’ll go,” Tara says quietly, standing up from the bed. “Let you guys—“ She makes a vague gesture with one hand and starts to gather her books.

“You sure?” Buffy says. “You know you’re welcome to stay.”

“No, I—“ Tara shakes her head. “I h-h-“ She stutters for a long moment before stopping, taking a deep breath, and trying again. “I have homework,” she manages, and ducks out the door before Buffy can say anything else.

“Bye,” Buffy says as the door closes again. She looks over at Willow, frowning. “Is she alright? I know she’s shy, but that was…”

“Yeah.” Willow looks as confused as Buffy feels. “Maybe you intimidate her?”

“ _Me_?”

“You are kinda intimidating,” Willow says. “What with the Slayer strength and the casual superhero vibe and the…you.” She makes a vague gesture in Buffy’s direction. Buffy sits down on the edge of Willow’s bed, frowning.

“I don’t mean to,” she says. “She seems really nice. I wanna be friends, not scare her.”

“I know.” Willow scoots to the edge of the bed and stands up, picking up the books on the bed that are hers. “I’ll talk to her about it.” Buffy watches her as she moves around the room, replacing the books on the shelf and straightening out the covers on the bed.

“You two have gotten close pretty fast, huh?” she says after a moment. Willow shrugs, blushing slightly.

“I guess,” she says, sitting down next to Buffy. “I’ve seen her every day this week and—I don’t know. She’s just—really nice, and cool, and knows _so much_ about magic, and really funny, and—“

“Am I getting replaced?” Buffy says, mostly joking. Willow makes a face at her.

“Don’t be stupid,” she says. “We’re still best friends.” She pushes Buffy’s arm lightly. “Besides, what about me?”

“Hm?”

“Are you replacing me?” Buffy frowns slightly at the question, confused. “With Faith,” Willow clarifies. “You guys hang out like, every night, right?”

“Well, yeah, but…” It’s _different_ , somehow, with Faith. Buffy doesn’t know how to explain it, but the way she interacts with Faith, the way she feels around her, _about_ her, is so wildly different from her relationship with Willow that the two aren’t really comparable. “That’s work,” is what Buffy settles on, though the explanation feels woefully insignificant. “We’re patrolling, not hanging out.” That…isn’t entirely true. Buffy and Faith talk plenty on patrol, not to mention their habit of turning the whole thing into a competition—who can kill the most vampires in a night, who can do it one-handed, and so on.

“Uh huh,” Willow says. “And where were you before you came here?”

“Getting…lunch with Faith,” Buffy says. “But it’s _different_ , alright? I’m friends with her, but it’s not like being friends with you.”

“I hope not,” Willow says, “seeing how I, y’know, didn’t kill anybody, or work for any demons, or—“

“Wil.”

“I’m not saying I hold it _against_ her,” Willow says. “I’m just…saying in general.”

“Well, maybe don’t _say_ tonight,” Buffy says.”

“Tonight?”

“We’re going to a party,” Buffy says. “You, me, Faith, that party at Riley’s fraternity.” Willow looks distinctly uncertain. “Wil, please. Give it a try?”

“I don’t know.” Willow bites her lip. “Even before the stabby-murdery-evil stuff, I don’t think I would’ve wanted to party with Faith. I don’t think me and her define _fun_ the same way. Murder or no.”

“She’ll behave,” Buffy promises. “Just give it a try? You can see that Faith is better, and it’ll keep your mind off of—“ She cuts herself off.

“Off of Oz,” Willow finishes for her. “You can say his name, Buffy, I’m not gonna break.”

“You sure?” Buffy says. “Because the other day I came in here and you had the shades down at two in the afternoon and you were playing the Dingoes Ate My Baby album loud enough to hear it from halfway down the hall.”

“Buffy.” Willow smiles, and though it’s pained, it’s genuine. “I’m gonna be okay. But if you want, I’ll go to that party with you and Faith.”

“You will?” Buffy says. Willow nods.

“I want to give her a chance,” she says. “And I can’t really do that if I avoid her forever.”

“You should tell that to Xander,” Buffy mutters. She’s barely seen him all week. Of course, that could be due to his desire to avoid Faith—and by extension, as of late, Buffy—or due to Anya monopolizing his time.

Apparently, she’s a very _enthusiastic_ girlfriend.

“Was Professor Walsh angry that I was gone?” Willow asks, changing the subject. Buffy winces.

“Um, about that…”

* * *

Joyce is sitting on the front porch when Faith gets home. She smiles at Faith as she comes up the steps and settles down beside her.

“How was job hunting?” she asks.

“Good.” Faith leans back against the bench, propping her elbows on the back of it. “I think I’m gonna look for an apartment once I have some money saved up. Guessin’ rent prices are pretty low on the Hellmouth.” She doesn’t mention that she’s also going to have to go hunting for a fake I.D. if she actually gets a job—if there are real documents on file somewhere under her name, she doesn’t know about it. Maybe back in Boston, but it’ll be a cold day in hell before she goes back there, for _any_ reason.

“Cheapest housing in California,” Joyce confirms. “I’ll miss you when you move out.” Faith grins.

“Don’t worry about it,” she says. “I’ll come over for dinner all the time, you’ll get sick of me before you know it.”

“I could never,” Joyce says. She turns and looks at Faith, her face growing serious, solemn. “Can I ask you a question, Faith? You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.” Faith’s stomach twists nervously. _When has_ that _preface ever led to anything good?_

“Well, with that kinda buildup, I can hardly wait,” Faith says. Joyce doesn’t even smile at the attempted joke, which is fair, given that it isn’t really that funny, but doesn’t do Faith’s nerves any favors.

“Are you gay?”

Faith looks away.

“Is that…okay to ask?” Joyce says. “I’m sorry if it isn’t, I just—I’m curious.”

“It’s okay.” Faith forces a smile, shoving her shaking hands under her thighs to keep them still. She looks back over at Joyce. “You gonna kick me out?”

“ _God_ , no,” Joyce says. “Never.” Faith nods, biting her lip and finding her courage.

“I’ve…never really thought about it like that,” she says. “Sex and—relationships and all that, it’s never been about whether I’m into someone or not, y’know? If I fucked someone, or dated them, or whatever, it was about what they could do for me. Food, or a place to stay, or whatever else I needed.” She shrugs. “It didn’t matter who I was or wasn’t attracted to, that didn’t factor into it. If I needed something, and sex was a good way to get it…”

“I’m sorry,” Joyce says quietly. Faith shrugs.

“Doesn’t matter,” she says. “What I’m trying to say is, I’ve been with guys ‘cause of that. Been with girls, too, but none of that—it doesn’t mean anything, with my—my sexuality or whatever. Or if it does, I don’t know what it means.” She’s rambling. She takes a breath and lets it out slowly, trying to calm herself down. She can feel the shaky beginnings of a panic attack stirring in her fingertips, and she’d rather not make Joyce think she needs to be committed, what with the shaking and hyperventilating and general mental instability. So she takes the time she needs, breathing deeply, imagining Roberts’ voice asking her inane, monotonous questions to take her mind off the panic and calm her down.

_What’s the capital of California, Faith? And Ohio? And Arizona? What about the mountain range in Georgia, what’s it called?_

Geography. One of the few things Faith actually remembers from school.

“Here’s what I do know,” Faith says, when her heartbeat has settled back down. “I’ve only ever…really cared about one person, like, romantically. And she’s a girl, so…” Faith shrugs. “Maybe I’m gay.” The word feels…good. _Normal_ , almost. Faith isn’t sure what to make of that.

“And that girl,” Joyce says, “is Buffy.” Faith can’t find the energy to freak out again. Instead, she just half-laughs, leaning forward and resting her elbows on her knees.

“That obvious, huh?” she says.

“Well, kind of,” Joyce says. “I had my suspicions, and then, last week, after you and Buffy fought, when I found you in your room…you kept saying _Buffy doesn’t want me_. And, I don’t know, you sounded heartbroken.” Faith doesn’t remember what she was saying that night. She had been half-delirious with emotion—rage, grief, fear, desperation. It doesn’t surprise her that she was talking about Buffy.

“Yeah,” Faith says. “Yeah, it’s Buffy.” She looks over her shoulder, back at Joyce, who is watching her with an expression that Faith has seen on Buffy’s face a hundred times—she used to think it was pity, and it used to make her angry, but Faith is beginning to understand that it’s actually _care_. “I hope that’s okay.”

“Of course it’s okay,” Joyce says. Faith hums quietly in acknowledgement. They sit in silence for awhile, as the sun begins to inch its way towards the horizon.

“Are you in love with her?” Joyce asks eventually. Faith starts slightly, not expecting the question.

“I don’t know,” she says. “I don’t even know what that’s supposed to mean. Not really.”

“I only ask because I don’t—“ Joyce hesitates. “I don’t know if Buffy feels the same way about you. Or if she even can.”

“She doesn’t,” Faith says, glancing at Joyce. “But that’s—that’s okay, you know?” She sits up straight again, leaning back against the bench. “The guy I stayed with in New Mexico, he told me once that it’s human nature to give more love away than you get in return. I know Buffy doesn’t love me, and yeah, that sucks, and maybe it’ll never stop hurting, but it’s _okay_.”

“Well, that’s a very mature way of looking at it,” Joyce says. “More mature than some people twice your age, I think.” She sets a hand on Faith’s shoulder and smiles at her sympathetically. “Whether or not Buffy will ever love you like that,” she says, “you mean the world to her. That much is obvious.”

“Thanks, Mrs. S,” Faith murmurs. She stands, turning to walk into the house, and Joyce follows her, empty mug from her tea in hand.

“Since I wasn’t sure if you would be home for dinner, I thought I would just order in,” she says as they walk inside. “What do you want to get?” Faith shrugs, heading for the stairs.

“I’ll eat anything,” she says. She turns around halfway up the stairs, looking back down at Joyce in the kitchen. “Thank you,” she says. “With the—not kicking me out, and all that.” Joyce looks at her for a moment, quietly.

“Did you know,” she says eventually, “that after I found out Buffy was the Slayer, I—we fought, and she ran away?”

“I didn’t know that,” Faith says. She does the math in her head quickly. That would’ve been the summer before Faith arrived.

“It was—a bad night, the night I found out,” Joyce says, going distant for a moment. “We were fighting, and she was leaving to go fight Angel, and I was—I was afraid she was going to die.” Joyce shrugs. “So I told her that, if she left, she shouldn’t come back, and she spent the whole summer alone in L.A.” Faith blinks at her.

“That…doesn’t seem like the right solution,” she says.

“It wasn’t,” Joyce says, half-smiling at Faith’s words. “It was the worst mistake of my life. She didn’t come back for three months. I didn’t know where she was, what she was doing, if she was even still alive. All the anger and confusion and fear that had made me push her away, it wasn’t worth that. Nothing was.”

“B never told me about any of that,” Faith says quietly, running over the year before in her head. Buffy’s distance from her friends when Faith first arrived, her fear that Faith was replacing her, Joyce’s hinting that Faith _should_ replace Buffy as the Slayer—it all makes a lot more sense now.

“I think she’s pretending it never happened,” Joyce says. _Yeah, that sounds like B_. “The point is, Faith, I’m never going to tell you to leave.” Faith nods, her throat tight.

“I, uh, I like Thai food,” she says, instead of trying to respond to Joyce’s promise.

“Thai it is,” Joyce says, turning back to the kitchen and picking up the phone. Faith heads up the stairs to her room, pretending not to feel the itch behind her eyes or the lump in her throat.

* * *

“Did I tell you Riley came by earlier?” Willow says as she pulls a sweater over her head. Buffy glances over at her, frowning.

“Riley?” she echoes. “How come?”

“He wanted my advice on you,” Willow says. “He really likes you, Buffy.” Buffy rolls her eyes.

“He barely knows me,” she says. “What’d you tell him?” Willow shrugs.

“Just to be himself, mostly,” she says. “Something about cheese, maybe?” Before Buffy can respond, there’s a knock at the door of the dorm room. “Come in!” Willow calls.

“ _Wil_ ,” Buffy chastises. “It could be a vampire!” The door opens, and Faith steps into the room.

“Or it could not be,” Willow says.

“Hey,” Faith says, eyes shifting from Buffy to Willow and back. Buffy nods in greeting.

“Hi, Faith,” Willow says, her voice definitely a little higher-pitched and quieter than usual, but it’s a good effort.

“Red,” Faith says, nodding at her. “I like your sweater.” Willow crosses her arms uncertainly, glancing over at Buffy with a suspicious frown. “It’s not a dig,” Faith says, half-grinning. “I’m bein’ serious. It’s a nice sweater.”

“Oh.” Willow uncrosses her arms. “Well, thank you. You have a nice…” She hesitates, scanning Faith’s outfit for something to compliment other than her very apparent cleavage.

“Don’t strain yourself, Red,” Faith says, her grin turning full. Willow gives up on her search, relief in her eyes. Faith turns to Buffy, quirking an eyebrow. “So, we gonna party or what?”

“Party,” Buffy echoes. “That’s what we’re here for. Or—what we’re going there for.” Words aren’t working for Buffy all of a sudden. Faith is smiling, genuinely smiling; her dimples are out in full force, and even through the lipstick and makeup, it’s never been more clear to Buffy that Faith is different now. The old Faith didn’t smile like that. Buffy glances over at Willow to see if she can see the difference, too, but Willow still looks half-awkward, half-afraid.

“Let’s go, then,” Faith says, turning back towards the door, and Willow and Buffy follow.

The walk to the frat house is brief, and surprisingly, not that awkward. Willow and Faith mostly interact via Buffy, but the air between the three of them is light, easy—definitely lacking in the post-murder spree tension department.

As soon as they get to the party, Faith takes off in search of the alcohol, leaving Willow and Buffy to carve out a spot for themselves on a couch.

“You see what I’m saying about her being different?” Buffy says once they’re sitting down. Willow hesitates, chewing her lip thoughtfully.

“I think so,” she says after a moment. “But she’s still—well, look.” Willow gestures out at the center of the room, where people are dancing. Buffy looks up, following the gesture, and there’s Faith, dancing.

Buffy watches her dance for a moment. Faith has made herself the center of attention, perhaps inadvertently, although Buffy somehow doubts it. She’s surrounded by guys vying for her attention, trying to get inside her whirlwind movements, but every time one gets too close, she pushes him away again, keeping them all at arm’s length. Some part of Buffy tugs at the rest of her, telling her to get up and get out there, to go dance with Faith. She’s pretty sure that, if she did, Faith wouldn’t push _her_ away.

“Well, she’s still _her_ ,” Buffy says, shrugging and turning back to Willow. “Just, y’know, without the evil bits.”

“I know,” Willow says. “But—I don’t know. The makeup, and the dancing—it seems like she’s just back to how she was…before.”

“That’s not how it is,” Buffy says, shaking her head. Willow smiles at her.

“Well, I’m a little more okay taking your word for that now,” she says. Buffy hums in acknowledgement and gets to her feet. That tug is too strong to ignore anymore, and Buffy decides to blame it on the Slayer connection. Maybe the magic between them, whatever it is, is picking up on the adrenaline, the excitement in the air, and trying to draw them together, for safety’s sake.

The reasoning sounds flimsy, even in Buffy’s head, but she doesn’t particularly want to consider any alternatives.

“I’m gonna go dance,” she says to Willow. “You wanna come?”

“You go,” Willow says, shaking her head. “I’ll—“ She gestures vaguely around the room. “Enjoy the ambiance, I guess.”

“You sure?” Buffy says. “I don’t wanna ditch you.”

“Go,” Willow says, rolling her eyes and making a shooing gesture. “Have fun. I’ll catch up eventually.” Buffy nods and turns away, making her way towards the dance floor.

“Buffy!” Buffy stops halfway there as someone calls her name from her right. She turns, and sighs internally when she sees Riley approaching, a nervous grin on his face.

“Hi, Riley,” she says as he stops in front of her.

“How are you?” he says.

“Good,” Buffy says. “You?” Riley just nods, still grinning. Buffy sighs out loud this time, though she tries to keep it unobtrusive. Riley is sweet, she supposes, in a… _normal_ kind of way. Like Cheerios. A perfectly good cereal, yes, but bland, forgettable, and who would eat Cheerios if another, more interesting cereal is available?

Buffy gives up on the cereal metaphor. She’s not sure where it’s going, and besides, it’s kind of mean. Riley really is a perfectly nice guy, even if he happens to be between Buffy and dancing with Faith at the moment.

The opening notes of a familiar song begin to blast through the speakers in the house. Buffy recognizes it immediately as a Dingoes Ate My Baby song, and she begins to turn to look back at Willow on the couch. Another moment in, and Buffy remembers that Oz wrote this particular song—wrote it for Willow.

_Oh, shit._

Buffy catches a glimpse of red hair and fuzzy sweater just as Willow walks out the front door of the frat house. _This is not going according to plan_.

“So…” Riley is visibly searching for something to say when Buffy turns back to the conversation. “Did you do the reading yet?” Buffy can’t help the incredulous look that spreads across her face.

“Did you really stop me at a party to ask about _school_?” she says. Riley’s nervous grin fades, and he’s about to say something else when suddenly, an arm is thrown around Buffy’s shoulders. She tenses up, her Slaying instincts turning her hands into fists for a moment, before the newcomer speaks.

“Hey, B,” Faith says from beside her, and the tension goes out of Buffy’s muscles. She relaxes into the arm around her shoulders and glances over at Faith. Faith’s face is only inches away from her own, but she’s not looking at Buffy. “Hey, Wheaties.” _Wheaties! That’s the right cereal._ Buffy looks back over at Riley, whose smile is gone entirely now, replaced by a look of utter confusion as he glances between Buffy and Faith.

“Faith, this is Riley, my Psych T.A.,” Buffy says. “You remember?”

“I remember his name, sure,” Faith says.

“Hi,” Riley says, conquering his confusion and sticking out a hand to shake Faith’s. Faith’s right arm, though, stays firmly where it is, wrapped around Buffy’s shoulders.

“Riley, this is Faith,” Buffy says, trying to be diplomatic, “my—“

“Buffy!” Buffy is cut off mid-sentence by a shout of her name from behind her. She turns, looking for the source of the voice. It’s Xander, pushing his way through the crowded house, looking distinctly unhappy.

“Xander,” Buffy says as he approaches. Faith slips her arm off of Buffy’s shoulders, and Buffy finds herself missing its weight immediately. She decides to think about _that_ at a later date, as not even Faith’s presence makes Xander falter in his approach.

“We’ve got a problem,” he says, then his eyes fall to Riley behind Faith and Buffy. “It, uh, it has to do with—our British friend.” At Buffy’s blank look— _for God’s sake, Xander, the entire Watchers’ Council is British, be more specific_ —he adds, “Our _platinum blond_ British friend?”

“Do you mean Spike?” Faith says. Xander gives her an exasperated look, clearly annoyed at the lack of respect for his code, but he nods.

“He’s back in town,” Xander says. When neither Buffy nor Faith are particularly surprised by this news, he repeats himself. “ _Spike_ is _back_ , guys.”

“We, uh, we kinda know,” Buffy says.

“What?”

“Yeah.” Buffy winces slightly. “Me and Faith ran into him last week.”

“Last _week_?” Xander says. “You’ve known he’s back for a whole week and you haven’t ki—“ His eyes snap to Riley, and he corrects himself quickly. “— _kissed_ him yet? Because the last time Spike was in town and didn’t get _kissed_ , he caused a lot of problems!”

“Spike?” Riley asks, utterly lost. “Kissed?” He turns to Buffy. “You’re kissing a guy named _Spike_?”

“It’s none of your damn business who B is or isn’t kissing, Kansas,” Faith says.

“I’m actually from Iowa—“

“I said what I said.” Faith raises her eyebrows at him, daring him to challenge her.

“Are we going or not?” Xander says. “Buff, Spike is looking for you.”

“I’m not kissing Spike,” Buffy says to Riley, trying to defuse the sudden tension. “ _Definitely_ not kissing Spike. Spike is—“ She gives up. She can’t think of a way to even begin to explain this, especially not with Xander’s anxious presence a few feet away, waiting for her to go Spike-hunting. “Look, I’ll see you in class, Riley,” she says, and pulls Faith away, following Xander through the party and towards the door.

“See ya, Tom Joad,” Faith calls over her shoulder.

“What do I have to do with _The Grapes of Wrath_?” Riley says, more to himself than anything, though Buffy hears it. She just waves over her shoulder, and she, Faith, and Xander push their way through the crowd.

“I ran into Harmony on campus,” Xander is saying as they get out of the house and into the cool night air. “She mentioned Spike was back. Apparently they’re dating now?”

“ _Harmony_?” Buffy says, wrinkling her nose. “At least Drusilla had flair.”

“How’d you get away?” Faith asks.

“I fought her off,” Xander says, not looking at her.

“ _You_ fought off a vampire?” Faith says, and Buffy winces at the amusement in her tone, knowing how Xander will react.

“Yeah, I did,” Xander snaps. He stops in his tracks, turning to glare at Faith. “Problem?” Faith raises her hands defensively.

“Nope,” she says. “No problem. Sorry, old habits.”

“Yeah?” Xander says. “Any other _old habits_ kicking in? Murdered anyone lately?” Faith’s jaw clenches, and Buffy waits for the inevitable explosion, but it doesn’t come. She doesn’t rise to the bait, doesn’t respond to Xander’s abuse. He looks like he’s about to say more, though, so Buffy gets between the two of them.

“Whoa, guys,” she says. “I thought you had a truce.” Xander scoffs, but turns away. He starts walking again, and Faith and Buffy fall into step behind him.

“Hey,” Buffy murmurs, bumping Faith’s shoulder with her own. “That was big of you. To not blow up at him for the…murder comment.” Faith shrugs, her eyes fixed on Xander’s back, unreadable.

“He can say whatever he wants to me,” she says, “if it makes him feel better.” The words could, _should_ be harsh, but Faith’s tone is…almost _regretful_.

“Harmony attacked me here,” Xander says, stopping in a small clearing off the path. Buffy and Faith stop as well, glancing around.

“Well, she sure isn’t here now,” Faith says. Buffy hums in acknowledgement, an idea forming somewhere in her mind.

“Xander,” she says, turning to him. “You said Spike is looking for me, right?”

“Yeah,” Xander says. “Harmony said he had a plan to kill you.”

“Well then, we should let him,” Buffy says.

“What?” Faith says, frowning at her.

“He wants me, let’s give him me.” Buffy grins. “And you, in the bushes, with a stake.”

“Are you sure?” Xander says. “Harmony seemed pretty serious about the whole Spike-killing-the-Slayer thing.”

“I’m sure,” Buffy says, smiling at him reassuringly. “I’ve fought Spike before. Besides, two of us, one of him.” She pulls her spare stake out of her purse and tosses it to Faith, who catches it easily and spins it in her palm. _Showoff_.

“You should go home,” Buffy says to Xander. “It’ll be easier for me and Faith to handle this.” Xander hesitates, frowning. “Xander.” Buffy holds his gaze firmly. “I’ll call if I need help, okay?”

“Okay,” Xander says after a moment. He shoots Faith a suspicious look. “Okay, call me.” With that, he turns and walks away, back down the concrete path across campus.

“So we gonna wait here for Bleach Boy and his girl?” Faith says. Buffy shakes her head, and they start off down the path, headed in the opposite direction from Xander.

“You know, when you said you and Xander had called a truce, I thought he was going to be mature about all this,” Buffy says after a moment. Faith flips her stake through the air, a moody frown on her face.

“He’s not—being immature,” Faith says. That odd tone is back in her voice, a pervasive blend of regret and…something else that Buffy can’t put her finger on. Exhaustion, maybe. “He’s just pissed. And he gets to be. I did some pretty awful shit, I’m not gonna tell him to get over it.”

“And you’re okay with that?” Buffy says, shaking her head. Faith shrugs.

“I’m not okay with anything I did last year,” she says. “I’m not gonna ask anyone else to be, either.” It’s clear that this particular conversation is over, so Buffy lets it go, though it still doesn’t make any sense to her.

“So, I think you and Wil are right about Riley,” Buffy says, changing the subject. “He’s definitely into me.”

“He ain’t exactly subtle about it,” Faith says. “So? You gonna go for it?” Buffy wrinkles her nose.

“No,” she says. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, he’s sweet. And cute, in a kind of I-knew-four-of-him in high school way. But, I don’t know, he’s…”

“The human embodiment of a piece of toast?”

“ _Faith_.” Buffy laughs at the joke, but she smacks Faith’s arm admonishingly anyway. “Be nice.”

“I’m being nice!” Faith protests. She’s grinning at her own joke, which Buffy shouldn’t find anywhere near as endearing as she does. “Tell me where I’m wrong. Bland, dry, boring—“

“Shush.” Buffy is smiling, though she ducks her head, not wanting to give Faith the satisfaction.

“Where are we setting our vamp trap?” Faith asks, moving on. Buffy glances around. They’re coming up on a bench, on an empty bit of path behind the main dorms, with a convenient patch of trees fairly close to it.

“This is perfect,” Buffy says. “I can sit on the bench, you hide in there.”

“Recipe for Slayage,” Faith says, nodding. “Alright.” She heads off of the path and into the patch of trees, stake in hand. Buffy hides her stake up the sleeve of her jacket and sits down to wait.

“Buffy?” The shout comes after several minutes of silence, in which Buffy sits quietly on the bench, tapping her fingers against her leg restlessly. At the call of her name, Buffy looks down the path, frowning in confusion. It’s Riley, coming down the path with a matching frown on his own face.

“Riley,” she says. “What are you doing here? Isn’t the party still going?”

“Well, yeah, but…” He shrugs. “I’m just—going for a walk. What about you?”

“Just sitting,” Buffy says, surprised at the confidence she manages the lie with.

“Well, it’s not—safe to sit outside at night, is it?” Riley says. “What with the—night.”

“I think I’ll be fine,” Buffy says, barely holding back an eye roll. “I have survived a couple thousand nights in my time.”

“Buffy—“ Riley sighs. “Can’t you sit, I don’t know, somewhere else?”

“No.” Buffy’s getting a bit annoyed now. She stands up, crossing her arms. “Last I checked, this bench was public property.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be looking for someone?” Riley says, changing tack. “That…Spike guy, or whatever his name was?”

“I’m meeting him,” Buffy says. “Right here, actually, so I would appreciate you leaving.”

“So you can kiss him?” Riley says, crossing his arms. _I swear to_ God _, if he doesn’t leave_ …

“Hey.” It’s a familiar voice, coming from a dozen feet away. Buffy looks down the concrete path, and there’s Faith coming towards them.

“Hey, Faith,” Buffy says. Faith stops beside them, slipping her arm around Buffy’s waist. Buffy tenses for a moment under the contact. Faith has been so _touchy_ tonight, in a way that she hasn’t been since…actually, Buffy isn’t sure if Faith has ever been like this before. “What are you doing here?”

“Just passing through,” Faith says, half-shrugging. “Thought I’d say hi. See what Kansas here is bothering you about.” _Here to help get rid of him_ , Buffy mentally interprets. She looks back over at Riley. His gaze is flitting back and forth between the two of them, a slight frown on his face, as though he’s trying to figure something out. Suddenly, his face clears, and he smiles at them both.

“We’re just talking,” he says to Faith. “Don’t worry.” She blinks at him, visibly confused, but she doesn’t get the chance to ask what he means, what she would be worried about in the first place, because the three of them are interrupted by a loud, high-pitched scream going up from the dorm buildings off to their left. Buffy recognizes it instantly.

_Willow_.

“We—have to go,” Buffy says, slipping out of Faith’s arm and grabbing her hand to tug her along, back up the path. “I’ll see you, Riley.”

“Be safe!” Riley calls after them, and when Buffy glances over her shoulder at him, he’s already moving off down the path in the opposite direction, quickly and purposefully.

“That was Willow screaming,” Buffy says to Faith as they hurry up the path towards the dorms. Faith glances over at her, eyebrows raised.

“You can recognize her scream?”

“I’ve heard it a lot,” Buffy says. “Went to school on a Hellmouth and all that.”

“Fair enough.” They round the corner of the dorm building and head for the main entrance. “You think it’s Spike?” Faith asks.

“It could be,” Buffy says, biting her lip nervously. It would be just like Spike to go after one of her friends to get to her. It’s not as though he’s never done it before. And the way Willow had screamed…she’s becoming a more powerful witch every day, but Spike is seriously dangerous, and he could be hurting her.

“Hey,” Faith says, drawing Buffy’s attention. She offers Buffy a small, reassuring smile, and Buffy realizes she’s still holding Faith’s hand when Faith squeezes her hand gently. “Red’s tough,” Faith says. “She’s fine, alright? She probably whipped out some crazy spell, and the only weapon we’re gonna need is a Dust Buster to clean up what’s left of him.” It’s an exaggeration, and Buffy is sure they both know it, but it’s what she needs right now.

“Thanks, Faith,” Buffy says. Faith nods, and slips her hand out of Buffy’s. Immediately, Buffy feels the urge to reach for it again, and she wonders when she started enjoying Faith’s touch so much.

They get a few looks, rushing through the dorm halls to get to Willow and Buffy’s room—likely as a result of the stakes they both carry. Buffy doesn’t bother trying to hide her weapon, or her urgent stride. Everyone here from Sunnydale is already used to her, and everyone from out of town will be soon enough.

“It could happen to anyone,” Willow’s voice is saying as they approach the door to Buffy’s dorm room. “You’ve been around for what, two hundred years? You’re bound to have performance issues every once in awhile.”

“Performance issues?” Faith murmurs to Buffy as they take up positions on either side of the door. Buffy shakes her head.

“Later,” she whispers back.

“I just don’t know what’s wrong with me,” a familiar, male voice says from inside the room. Buffy’s grip tightens on her stake. The voice—accent, tone, all of it—is undoubtedly Spike’s.

Faith raises her free hand, holding up three fingers. Buffy nods in understanding, setting one hand on the doorknob. Slowly, Faith lowers one finger, two fingers…

Buffy throws the door open and charges inside, stake raised, Faith not far behind her. She freezes a few steps into the room, though, utterly perplexed at the tableau in front of her.

Spike and Willow are sitting side-by-side on Willow’s bed. Spike doesn’t have his vamp-face on; his features are human—and _upset_. Willow has one hand on Spike’s back, as though she’s trying to comfort him.

“Slayer,” Spike says, then he sees Faith. “Slayer _s_.” His face shifts, and he jumps to his feet. Buffy readies her stake, shifting into a defensive stance.

“Wait!” Willow says. “Wait, Buffy, Faith, it’s okay. He can’t bite me.”

“What?” Buffy says, frowning.

“Oi!” Spike whirls around, glaring at Willow. “D’you have to tell _everyone_?”

“Sorry.” Willow winces and makes an apologetic face. “But, Spike, you shouldn’t be ashamed! I’m sure it’s something a lot of vampires your age go through—“

“Shut _up_!” Spike starts to swing at Willow, but the moment his hand comes near her face, he roars and stumbles back a step, pressing his hands to his head.

“See?” Willow says to Buffy. “He can’t hurt me.”

“Sounds like a great time to kill him, then,” Faith says, flipping her stake through the air.

“Yeah, I gotta agree,” Buffy says. She steps forward, and Spike takes a step back.

“But…” Willow frowns. “Isn’t it kind of…I don’t know, mean? He can’t fight back.”

“You don’t know that!” Spike says, glaring at her.

“That sounds pretty ideal, actually,” Faith says. “Easy Slay.” She steps up beside Buffy, and suddenly, Spike looks a little bit less confident.

“Hey, the witch has got a point,” he says. “Two on one is cheating.”

“Is it?” Faith shrugs. “Good thing I don’t play by the rules.”

The lights go out.

“Huh?” Buffy glances around. Her eyes are adjusting fast—Slayer physiology is built for the darkness—but not fast enough. She hears footsteps, and feels Spike brush past her, fast as anything.

“He’s running for it,” Faith says. Buffy glances over at her, her face becoming rapidly more visible, and as one, they chase Spike into the hall.

“What the fuck?” Faith says as they step into the hall. That’s about Buffy’s sentiment, as well. The hall is filled with some sort of fog—opaque, like smoke, but it doesn’t burn in Buffy’s lungs. It does, however, obstruct her night vision, and she glances around, squinting through the smoke to look for Spike.

A cacophony of footsteps from the other end of the hall catches Buffy’s attention, and she turns, looking towards the sound. Through the smoke, she’s able to make out the outlines of five or six people. They’re men, from what she can tell; tall, boxy, imposing figures, carrying— _guns_?

“They’re coming this way,” Faith whispers, grabbing Buffy’s shoulder and pulling her back against the wall of the hallway.

“More of our commando buddies?” Buffy whispers back.

“I think so.” The commandos pass them by without paying them very much attention. They stomp down the hall, the same direction Spike had fled.

“He’s escaped,” one of the commandos says to another in a low tone, one that anyone other than a Slayer likely wouldn’t pick up on.

“Let’s pull out,” the second one says. Buffy frowns at the voice. It’s…familiar, somehow, though she can’t place it. “Regroup.” The soldiers move back through the mist, disappearing out of the hallway. Moments later, the lights go back up.

“Well, that was weird as shit,” Faith says, turning to Buffy. The fog is starting to dissipate, slowly sinking to the floor and fading away.

“No kidding,” Buffy says, glancing down the hall in either direction. There’s no sign of either the commandos or Spike. “You were right about the commandos, though,” she says. “We need to figure out what they’re doing. Tomorrow I’ll catch Giles up on all this and see if he has any advice on where to start.”

“Guys?” It’s Willow from inside the dorm room. “What happened?”

“We lost him,” Buffy says, stepping back into the dorm. Faith follows her, slipping her stake into her waistband. “What with the power outage and the Party City dry ice fog, he escaped.”

“Oh.” Willow glances between them hesitantly. “You know, I really don’t think he’s that dangerous anymore. Every time he tried to bite me, he did the—you saw the thing.” She presses a hand to her forehead, imitating Spike’s earlier agonized pose.

“We don’t know what’s wrong with him,” Buffy says. “And we don’t know if it applies to everyone.”

“And either way, he’s still, y’know, an evil vampire,” Faith adds on. “Am I the only one who remembers that bit?”

“I _remember_ ,” Willow says. “I just think it would be kind of mean to kill him if he can’t hurt anyone.”

“Compromise,” Buffy says. “We catch him, figure out what happened to him, and then decide whether or not we go on with the staking.” She’s expecting an argument from Faith, but Faith just rolls her eyes.

“Fair enough,” she says. “But I reserve the right to stake him if he pisses me off.” She turns to Willow. “Hey, listen,” she says. “I’m, uh…I’m sorry the party thing didn’t work out. It was my idea, and you don’t seem…” She makes a vague gesture with one hand. “Cheered.”

“That’s okay,” Willow says, smiling hesitantly. “Thanks for trying.”

“Yeah.” Faith shifts uncomfortably.

“Listen, Buffy,” Willow says, turning to face her. “I’m gonna go over to Tara’s. I’m still a little…” She holds up one hand, and Buffy sees that she’s trembling slightly.

“Go,” Buffy says, making a shooing gesture. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“See you.” Willow turns and opens the door. “Bye, Faith.” She leaves, closing the door behind her, and Faith and Buffy are left alone.

“She’s not too freaked, huh?” Faith says, looking over at Buffy.

“She’s tough,” Buffy says. “Like you said.”

“I was just trying to make you feel better,” Faith says. Buffy half-smiles and shrugs.

“Well, it worked because it’s true,” she says. “And I appreciate you trying.”

“No problem, B.” Faith takes a step towards the door. “I’ll see you.” Buffy darts forward on an impulse, and she sees a flash of shock on Faith’s face as Buffy steps into her space. Buffy hugs her tightly, and Faith only tenses up for a moment before she tentatively returns the hug.

As she steps back, Buffy gives in to another impulse, and quickly kisses Faith on the cheek. Faith’s hands fall from their places on Buffy’s waist, though Buffy doesn’t go far. She doesn’t think she can, right now; Faith is looking at her, eyes dark and unreadable, pinning Buffy in place.

Slowly, without breaking eye contact, Faith raises one hand, pressing her fingertips to the place on her cheek where Buffy’s lips had been. The Slayer connection is buzzing in the back of Buffy’s head, but whatever’s coming through, it’s different from anything Buffy has felt from Faith before.

“Good night, Buffy,” Faith says after a moment. Mouth dry, Buffy just nods. Faith turns and opens the door. Buffy takes it from her, and with one last glance over her shoulder, Faith turns and heads down the hall.

The moment she’s gone, Buffy closes the door and exhales heavily. The way Faith had looked at her, the tingling of the Slayer connection, the way Faith had been so touchy tonight—the arm around Buffy’s shoulders, the holding hands, the hesitant response to Buffy’s hug—something has _changed_ between them.

Or maybe it’s just changed for Buffy, because Faith had seemed as confident and casual as always, but with her gone and the room empty, Buffy finds herself wishing that Faith’s arms had stayed around her for just a little bit longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and there we have it!!! i can finally add the lesbian faith tag to this fic!!
> 
> if you noticed that this chapter was mostly missing the usual angst, pain, moral ambiguity, and tension—worry not, it'll all come back soon ;)
> 
> i'm on tumblr @daisys-quake and on twitter @thoughtsintoink; i would love to hear from y'all on either platform! leave a comment and kudos if you enjoyed—comments seriously mean the world to me; i pour a pretty big chunk of my time and energy into this fic, so i love to hear people's thoughts, theories, whatever you have to say. thanks for reading!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> big, big chapter this time, you guys. important stuff. might upset a few of you ;)
> 
> in all seriousness, the next chapter won't be up for three weeks to a month, probably. i'm not going to have any computer access for the first two weeks of july, and i'm probably not going to get a whole lot written between now and when i leave, so the next chapter will probably be late july/early august. sorry for the delay, but hopefully, this one is good enough to tide y'all over until i can write the next one.
> 
> trigger warning for discussion of sexual assault in this chapter. also, this takes place during season 4, episode 8, pangs, but i am completely and totally ignoring the entire canon plot of that episode because i Am Not Touching that racist mess.
> 
> huge thanks to [rippergiles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rippergiles) for beta reading!

“You carry that thing a lot,” Buffy observes, nodding at the knife in Faith’s hand. Faith shrugs, glancing at the serrated blade—the knife the Mayor had given her—as she wipes the demon blood off of it on her Slaying bag. This particular demon had, in life, had green blood that fizzed in the air, like some sort of demented Mountain Dew. She isn’t sure how corrosive it is, but it’s gross.

“It’s a good knife,” Faith says, sheathing the blade in question. “Left a scar in me, and that ain’t easy to do.”

“You have a scar?” Buffy says, her voice going quiet. Faith glances over at her as they start walking down the cemetery path once more.

“It was one hell of a stab wound, B,” she says, shoving her hands in her pockets. “Woulda killed me if I wasn’t a Slayer.” Buffy nods with a frown. Faith, as always, ignores the urge to reach out and rub away the furrow that appears between Buffy’s eyebrows with the expression.

“Can I, um,” Buffy says. “Can I see it?” Faith hesitates, glancing around the cemetery. It’s been a fairly quiet night, other than the Mountain Dew demon and one freshly turned vampire. Her Slayer instincts aren’t picking up on anything, either, so she turns back to Buffy.

“Sure.” She shrugs off her jacket and holds it out for Buffy to hold. Buffy takes it, tucking it under one arm and watching Faith with an intensity in her gaze that Faith hasn’t seen from her before. Ignoring it, Faith lifts up her tank top, pulling the hem most of the way up her stomach to reveal the scar.

It had healed quite a bit in the weeks after Faith woke up in that hospital room, but it’s looked the same for a few months now—healed as much as it can, apparently. The scar is still raised from the skin around it, although not as much as it once was, and it’s a dull, whitish-pink color, instead of the angry near-red it had been when she woke up. It’s a few inches long from where the knife had dragged through her skin, tracing a narrow line from just above Faith’s hipbone towards her navel.

Buffy stares at the mark, taking a step closer to examine it more closely, and Faith lets her, not stepping back even as her heart rate begins to spike in reaction to Buffy’s proximity. Faith just stands there, watching emotions play across Buffy’s face. She can’t get a handle on most of them, but the way Buffy bites her lip and furrows her brow, exhaling carefully—that’s all pain.

Buffy begins to raise a hand, reaching out as if to touch the scar, and Faith steps back. That’s too much. Buffy pulls her hand back quickly, as if she’s only just realized that she was reaching out in the first place, and Faith lets her shirt drop, covering the mark once more. Faith is about to say something when she feels something on the edge of her senses. She spins, searching the cemetery for the vampire she knows is somewhere close by.

“Nine o’clock,” Buffy says quietly from behind her, spotting what Faith is looking for. Faith looks off to her left, and there he is: a vampire, wandering through the cemetery, ignorant to the presence of the Slayers. Freshly turned, Faith assumes. No experienced vampire would be that oblivious.

“Crossbow?” Faith asks, holding a hand out behind her. “The good one.” Buffy places the weapon in her palm, and Faith raises it, aiming carefully across the cemetery at the vampire.

“You don’t wanna hunt it down?” Buffy asks. “Have a little fun first?” Faith pulls the trigger, and the crossbow bolt shoots across the cemetery, straight into the chest of the vampire. He has just long enough to look down at his chest and blink in surprise before he explodes into dust.

“Not in the mood,” Faith says, lowering the crossbow. The vampire is a pile of dust now, but the discomfort on the edge of Faith’s senses persists. She glances around, but she doesn’t see anything else in the cemetery.

“If you say so.” Buffy hands Faith’s jacket back and starts walking. Faith shrugs the jacket on and keeps pace with her, resting the crossbow on her shoulder. They walk in silence for a moment, until Buffy says, “Hey, Faith? What are, um, what are you doing for Thanksgiving?”

“Thanksgiving?” Faith shrugs. “I dunno. With your mom out of town, I figured I would order pizza or something, watch a movie. Patrol so you don’t have to.” Joyce is in Seattle, negotiating some sort of art deal for the gallery. She had apologized profusely for leaving Faith alone over the holiday, but Faith doesn’t mind. It’s just a day, and besides, it’s not as though Faith has ever had or wanted a real Thanksgiving, anyway.

“What?” Buffy sounds downright offended. “You’re planning to spend Thanksgiving alone with a pizza? And _patrolling_?” Faith shoves her free hand in her pocket uncomfortably and shrugs.

“Well, yeah,” she says. “I’ve never done Thanksgiving. What’s the big deal?”

“What’s the—“ Buffy shakes her head. “Listen, everyone’s having Thanksgiving at Giles’ place. You should come.”

“All your friends?” Faith looks away uncertainly. “I don’t know, B.”

“Please?” Buffy says. She links her arm through Faith’s and bumps their shoulders together.

“You really want me around them?” Faith asks. “I know Red’s learning to put up with me, but the rest of them…”

“They can only get used to you if you spend time around them,” Buffy points out. “And I’m not letting you spend Thanksgiving alone.”

“You’re not gonna let this go, huh?” Faith says, recognizing the determined note in Buffy’s voice and the firm set of her jaw.

“Absolutely not,” Buffy says cheerfully, and Faith looks away to hide the affectionate smile tugging at her lips.

“I don’t know,” she murmurs. That unsettling feeling of _wrongness_ is still tingling at her Slayer senses, and, momentarily distracted from the matter of Thanksgiving, she turns to Buffy and says, “Can’t you feel that?”

“Feel what?” Buffy says, frowning.

“That—“ Faith makes a vague gesture. “I don’t know. It’s the Slayer thing. Something around here feels like a vamp, but—not.” Buffy shakes her head.

“I don’t feel it,” she says. “But you’ve always been better at the whole sensing thing, so we can look around some more if you want.” Faith shakes her head.

“No, it’s fine,” she says. The feeling is faint anyway, and if Buffy can’t pick up on it, Faith is probably just imagining things. “So, why are you so big on this whole me-coming-to-Thanksgiving thing anyway? It’s just a holiday.” She’s expecting a flippant, quippy answer, followed by another plea for Faith to come to the Scooby Thanksgiving, but instead, Buffy is quiet for a moment, thinking about it.

“Our—our group,” Buffy says. “At first, it was just me and Xander and Wil and Giles. And then Cordelia found out about me, and she joined up, and Giles and Ms. Calendar started dating so she became one of us, and then Oz, and now sort of Tara, and—“ She looks over at Faith. “Every time someone has showed up and needed us,” she says, “needed help, or protection, or a—a family, we’ve given it to them. And I know you don’t want to talk about last year, but we didn’t do that for you. We didn’t even really try.” She shrugs. “Better late than never, I guess.” Faith looks away.

“I don’t need your friends,” she says. “I have people already. I have Roberts. I have your mom. I have you.”

“Roberts?” Buffy asks, frowning, and Faith realizes she’s never heard the name before.

“The seer in New Mexico,” Faith says. “The point is, I don’t need your friends. And they don’t need me.”

“The whole world needs you, Faith,” Buffy says. “You’re supposed to save it, right?” Faith shrugs, feeling the familiar twinge of guilt that goes through her every time Buffy mentions the prophecy. She still hasn’t told anyone the last line.

“Whatever,” Faith says.

“Faith.” Buffy is getting exasperated now, Faith can hear it in her voice. “Just—come to Thanksgiving? Please?”

“Fine,” Faith says, giving in. Buffy won’t leave her alone until she does, she knows that. “But can we do it at the house instead of G’s place?” At Buffy’s confused look, Faith clarifies, “Neutral ground. Less likely to get kicked out if I’m not intruding in someone else’s house in the first place.”

“You wouldn’t be intruding,” Buffy says, rolling her eyes. “But sure, we can do it at the house. I’ll let everyone know.”

“Cool.” Faith takes her hand out of her pocket, and Buffy’s hand, where it’s slipped through Faith’s elbow, falls easily, naturally, into Faith’s. Faith does her best to keep her face carefully neutral as Buffy laces their fingers together, and they continue down the cemetery path towards the road, hand in hand. “You really want me there?” Faith asks after a minute, their hands swinging gently between them.

“Of course,” Buffy says. “I do actually like you, you know.”

 _She doesn’t mean that how you do. She never will_.

Faith ignores the bitter voice in her head and instead says, “I’ll walk you home?” Buffy flushes pink at the question as she nods, which confuses Faith a bit. She usually walks Buffy home after patrol; the question is mostly a formality. It isn’t unexpected, and it’s certainly never made Buffy blush before.

Faith opts not to analyze the blush, or why it might be occurring, for the sake of her own sanity. She can’t afford to get her hopes up when it comes to Buffy’s feelings towards her. Instead, she adjusts the crossbow on her shoulder and swings her and Buffy’s hands between them as they start the walk back up the sidewalk towards campus.

The cemetery stays quiet behind them as Faith and Buffy disappear up the street. The rest of the graves remain undisturbed, their occupants fully human and fully dead. Silently, in the patch of woods beyond the headstones, Angel steps out into a clearing, watching the two Slayers walk away. Doyle had said there was danger in Sunnydale, danger that threatened Buffy’s life. Angel had assumed that danger was Faith, but judging from what he’s just seen, he was wrong. Buffy and Faith seem to be closer than ever. Whatever the danger is, it’s something else, something none of them are ready for.

* * *

Xander comes back inside silently. He’s long since memorized the location of every squeaky floorboard, every whining hinge, every creaky stair in his house. Most of that knowledge is pointless now, as he only ever navigates the basement steps and the few feet to the back door. He doesn’t do it in the dark very often anymore, either, but tonight—vampires and darkness outside be damned—he had needed a cigarette.

It’s a habit he’s been picking up and kicking for years. It had started in middle school, and stopped when Willow found out. He had picked it back up again after Jesse died, only to quit once more, again at Willow’s behest. And now, with Faith back, he’s smoking again, for the first time since sophomore year.

Xander stops for a moment at the bottom of the basement stairs and looks down at Anya in his bed. She’s asleep, curled up on her side in one of his old t-shirts, snoring quietly. They had gone straight to bed tonight. Xander had been exhausted from work—construction is a good job, a fulfilling one; he likes the work more than he had anticipated, and the pay is good enough that he might actually be able to get out of his parents’ basement soon—and Anya had, reluctantly, curled up next to him and gone to sleep.

He sleeps better with her there. It’s the kind of sappy bullshit he keeps to himself, the sort of thing he would sooner retake tenth grade algebra than admit to, but it’s true.

Xander kicks off his boots and tosses his jacket on the floor before climbing into bed next to Anya. She shifts, mumbling in her sleep, before her eyes open. She blinks and squints at him, disoriented.

“Xander?” she says, wrinkling her nose. “You reek.”

“Cigarette smoke,” he says. She likely recognizes the smell, but he’s so used to explaining everything human to her at this point that it’s nearly automatic. “Sorry. Go back to sleep.”

“Why are you smoking at—“ Anya raises her head slightly, looking at the alarm clock on Xander’s nightstand. “Two in the morning?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Xander says, making himself comfortable against the pillows. Anya peers at him, a suspicious look on her face, and he knows he’s not getting out of this that easily.

“Have you slept at all?” she asks.

“Well, I’m not going to now if you keep talking.” It’s right on the verge of snapping, and internally, Xander winces at the harshness of his tone, but he doesn’t apologize. Anya huffs and rolls over. Instead of doing the same, Xander tucks his hands behind his head and stares up at the ceiling, dimly lit high above him.

“Hey, An?” he says after a minute. Anya shifts beside him.

“I thought you said you didn’t want to talk,” she says, refusing to turn over and look at him. Xander rolls his head to the side, looking at Anya beside him.

“Do you want to come to Thanksgiving with me?” he says. That makes Anya roll over. She frowns at him, that confused frown she always gets when something throws her off—usually a cultural reference, a figure of speech, or some sort of social interaction.

“You said that was just a you and your friends thing,” she says. “Not you, your friends, and your girlfriend thing.”

“It was,” Xander says. “But Buffy’s bringing Faith, and we’re gonna bring guests, I want you to be there.” He shrugs. “Besides, I think we should be friends.”

“Friends?” Anya repeats. “I thought we were dating.”

“We are.” Xander smiles at her. “We can be both. Friends and dating. Friends who are dating.”

“Friends who are dating.” Anya considers it for a moment. “And friends who are dating have sex, right?”

“Oh, yeah,” Xander agrees, nodding firmly. “Definitely. Definitely still with the sex.”

“Good.” Anya grins, and, in one smooth motion, rolls over, sits up, and straddles Xander’s waist.

“Whoa!” Xander sits up as well, his arms coming up defensively. Before he can stop himself, he’s shoving Anya off roughly and scooting back, up the bed, until he’s practically sitting on his pillow. Anya leans back on her palms and frowns at him.

“I thought you said yes to the sex,” she says.

“Yes to the—the general _concept_ of sex,” he says. “Not _right now_.” Anya huffs and crosses her arms.

“You never let me be on top,” she says.

“Jesus _Christ_ , An—“

“It’s true!” She frowns at him. “Is it some kind of masculinity thing? Because you can still be in charge—“

“It’s not—“ Xander sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I just don’t like it, alright?”

“But we haven’t _tried_ it,” Anya says. “How can you know if you like it if you haven’t tried?”

“I just know.” Anya doesn’t look convinced, and Xander can’t blame her. He doesn’t sound very convincing.

“You pushed me off,” Anya says, half-pouting. “That was mean.”

“I’m sorry, An.” Xander reaches out, taking one of Anya’s hands. “You scared me, that’s all.”

“Scared you?” Anya says. “Why?”

“I…” Xander looks away, drawing his hand back into his lap. “Look, the last person who…who got on top of me like that, I didn’t—she was trying to make me. I didn’t want to do anything like that, but she held me down, and she tried to make me…” He shrugs. “It was just—it was really scary, that’s all.”

“That’s why you don’t want me on top,” Anya says. “It reminds you of this girl who tried to rape you.” Xander flinches at the word, but nods. “Well, why didn’t you just say so? I would understand.”

“You would?” Xander asks, raising his eyebrows.

“Xander,” Anya says. “I helped women get revenge on men for a thousand years. Do you think I’ve never worked with rape victims before?” Xander hadn’t actually considered that, though it makes a lot of sense.

“I wasn’t raped,” Xander says, looking down at his hands. “And it’s different, anyway. I couldn’t tell you.”

“Why not?” Anya says.

“Because it’s _embarrassing_ , alright?” Xander crosses his arms, still not looking up at Anya. “This kinda stuff, it’s not supposed to happen to guys.”

“It’s not supposed to happen to anyone,” Anya says matter-of-factly. “Do you want me to curse that girl? I don’t have my powers anymore, but I can still do some magic. Boils, maybe, or I could make her lose all her hair. Oh! A plague of bunnies?”

“No,” Xander says, half-smiling. “No, An, that’s okay. No cursing.”

“Are you sure?” Anya asks. “She deserves it.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.” Xander scoots back down the bed and lies back down, stretching out. “But last time I tried to get revenge on someone, Buffy’s mom tried to murder me with an axe.” He’d like to think he learned his lesson after the love spell debacle with Cordelia.

“I’m a professional,” Anya says. “Or was. At any rate, if you change your mind—“

“Anya,” Xander interrupts. He opens his arms, grinning up at her. “C’mere.” Anya smiles and lies back down, curling into Xander’s side.

“Hey, Xander?” she says after a minute. “I’m glad you told me.” Xander kisses the top of her head.

“I’m glad, too,” he says, feeling a bit lighter than he had a few minutes ago. “Good night.”

This time, he falls asleep quickly.

* * *

“Are you excited for Thanksgiving?” Tara asks. Willow looks up from the translation she’s working on to where Tara is sitting a few feet away from her on the bed. They’re in Tara’s dorm—Willow isn’t sure how Tara scored a single, but she’s more grateful for it with every spell. Not only does it give them a place to experiment with magic, it gives them a place to do exactly what they’re doing right now: quietly existing in the same space, Tara working on her homework, Willow on translating a spell from Old French. Willow has never had this sort of friendship before—the kind where being silent together is not only comfortable, but _fun_. With Buffy or Xander, there’s always conversation. With Tara, there usually is, but when they have things to do, or when one of them needs to be quiet for awhile, they can do it together, and it’s somehow better, at least in Willow’s opinion, than doing it alone.

“Yeah,” Willow says, closing her book. “We’re all having dinner at Buffy’s house.”

“Buffy’s?” Tara asks. “You’re not celebrating with your family?” Willow looks down at the closed cover of her book, a slight frown tugging at her mouth. She hasn’t been home since the semester started. Her parents haven’t once called to check in.

“No,” she says. “They probably won’t even notice I’m gone.” Tara seems to pick up that she shouldn’t push on that particular topic, and instead of inquiring further, she just reaches out and sets a hand on Willow’s knee. Willow can feel the warmth of her palm through her thin leggings, and she feels an answering surge of warmth in her face as a faint blush works its way up her neck in response to the contact.

That’s been happening a lot lately, around Tara. Blushes and nervous laughter and butterflies in Willow’s stomach. Willow is pretty sure she knows what’s happening, but beyond the whole laundry list of reasons she doesn’t want to think about it, there’s also Oz. He’s been gone for weeks now, and he had told Willow not to wait for him, that night outside the Bronze, but Willow can’t help but feel a bit guilty, feeling anything for anyone but him.

“What about you?” Willow asks, clearing her throat. “Are you going home for Thanksgiving?” Tara’s hand slips from Willow’s knee, and she bites her lip nervously, ducking her head. She doesn’t do that much around Willow anymore—doesn’t stammer or try to hide behind her hair—so Willow knows immediately that this isn’t something Tara wants to talk about.

“N-no,” Tara murmurs. “It’s—it’s a long way, and classes start again on Monday anyway, so it’s not really worth the trip.”

“You could come to Buffy’s with me,” Willow says. The invitation is spontaneous, and it’s out of Willow’s mouth before she can stop it—not that she particularly wants to.

“Oh, that’s…” Tara turns slightly pink. “I don’t want to intrude.”

“You wouldn’t be,” Willow says. “You’re one of us. And Buffy is inviting Faith, anyway, so it can’t really get any weirder than that.”

“You really don’t like Faith, huh?” Tara says, watching Willow carefully.

“It’s not that I don’t _like_ her,” Willow says. “She can be really cool. It’s that she kidnapped me, and killed a couple people, and tried to kill Buffy, and tried to steal Angel’s soul, and—look, I told you about last year, but—you don’t know what she’s _like_. She’s…really, really scary. And dangerous.”

“She was nice to me,” Tara says. “At the Bronze, when you took me to meet your friends? She and Buffy were both really nice.”

“She was nice to me at first, too,” Willow says. Tara considers that for a moment, chewing her lip.

“You know I can sense auras, right?” she says. Willow nods, unsure where this is going. “They’re not an exact science, but usually I can sort of get a sense of someone. Willow—“ Tara leans forward, making eye contact. “Faith isn’t evil. She’s dark, and yeah, definitely dangerous, but not _evil_.” Willow tugs at a loose thread on her sweater absently.

“I’m trying to believe that,” she says. “I really am.” Tara nods, settling back once more. “So,” Willow says, changing the subject. “You didn’t give me an answer. Thanksgiving?” Tara hesitates.

“If you’re sure I won’t be intruding,” she says. Willow lets out an elated sound and scoots forward rapidly, throwing her arms around Tara. Tara laughs quietly into Willow’s ear and returns the hug. They stay like that for a moment longer than Willow had originally intended—it feels good, being in Tara’s arms. Finally, Willow pulls back, clearing her throat awkwardly. They’re close together now, as a consequence of the hug, and Willow is very aware of Tara’s hands, still resting on Willow’s forearms. Tara half-smiles uncertainly, one corner of her mouth quirking up, her eyes flicking back and forth between Willow’s. For a second, Willow isn’t sure where the moment is going. Her heart is racing. She feels as though she’s on the edge of something, about to pitch forwards—maybe overboard, into the ocean, maybe into something else entirely—when the phone rings. Tara scoots backwards, widening the distance between them, and Willow’s heartbeat begins to slow once more.

“Hello?” Tara says, still looking at Willow as she speaks into the phone. She listens for a moment, then says, “Here, I’ll give her the phone.” She holds it out to Willow. Willow takes it, and in the exchange, their hands brush.

Willow decides that the sparks of heat that shoot up her forearm in response are something she’ll have to think about later.

“Hello?” Willow says, holding the phone to her ear.

“ _Willow?_ ” the voice on the other end says.

“Giles!” she says, blinking in surprise at his unexpected voice. “What’s up?”

“ _We have a bit of an issue_ ,” he says. “ _Please come to my flat as quickly as possible_.”

“Of course,” Willow says, already standing up. “Is everything okay?”

“ _No one is in any immediate danger_ ,” Giles says. “ _But—well, it would be better to explain in person_.”

“I’m on my way,” Willow says, and hangs up. She turns to Tara, who is still sitting on the bed, looking at her with concern. “I have to go,” Willow says. “I’m sorry, I—apparently it’s important.”

“Go,” Tara says, making a shooing gesture. “I’ll see you at Thanksgiving tomorrow.”

* * *

“Willow!”

Willow is making her way across campus when she hears her name being shouted. She turns, and there’s Riley, jogging to catch up with her. “Where are you headed?” he asks, slowing to a walk beside her.

“Off campus,” she says. “Friend’s place.”

“Yeah?” Riley says. “Do you want a ride? I have a car.” Willow hesitates. Every time she’s spoken to Riley one-on-one before, it’s been about Buffy, but she’s made it clear she’s not interested, and Willow doesn’t really want to give him any more bullshit advice about cheese. On the other hand, though, Giles had made whatever’s happening at his place sound urgent, and Willow will get there a lot faster in Riley’s car than she will waiting for the city bus.

“Okay,” Willow says, and adjusts her course, heading for the student parking lot instead of the bus stop.

“Who’s your friend?” Riley asks as they walk. “Do they go here?”

“No,” Willow says. “He’s our high school librarian.” Riley glances over at her, eyebrows raised. “It’s not—he’s cool,” she says defensively.

“I’ll take your word for it,” Riley says, amused. They make it to the parking lot quickly, and Willow gives him Giles’ address as they pull out onto the road. “How are you doing?” Riley says after a minute. “I heard that guy you were dating dropped out. What was his name? Daniel?”

“Oz,” Willow says, her heart executing a familiar, painful drop. “Um, yeah. Yeah, he left. I’m doing okay, though.” Riley glances over at her with a sympathetic smile.

“I’m glad,” he says. “How’s Buffy?” _And there it is_.

“She’s good,” Willow says. “She’s—look, she’s…sort of—“

“Not interested?” Riley says with an easy grin, and Willow breathes a sigh of relief. “I know, I picked up on that.” They pull to a stop at a red light, and he looks over at Willow with an earnest expression. “I know she probably didn’t feel like she could tell me,” he says, “and you were just protecting your friend’s privacy. But I’m a safe person, alright? I would never treat her badly because of—well, because of who she is.”

“Okay?” Willow is starting to feel a little bit lost.

“I actually volunteer a lot for the advocacy groups on campus,” Riley continues. “My hometown in Iowa is pretty conservative, you know, so it’s nice being somewhere a little more open-minded, being able to help out without pissing off half my church.” Willow doesn’t know what to say to that. She’s not even sure what they’re talking about anymore. “So what’s Faith’s deal?” Riley asks, seemingly jumping topics again.

“Her deal?” Willow echoes. “Um, well, she—she doesn’t go to school with us. She was gone all summer. She—did a lot of not great stuff last year, but—she’s back now. Obviously.”

“Not great stuff?” Riley repeats, frowning. “It seems like her and Buffy have worked things out, though.” Willow shrugs.

“Buffy is sure she’s changed,” she says.

“Huh.” Riley takes a left turn, momentarily distracted by the road. “Well, I hope she’s right, then. They seem good together.”

“When they’re not trying to kill each other, sure,” Willow says. Riley laughs quietly, and Willow chooses not to explain just how much that wasn’t a joke.

“Is this it?” Riley asks, pulling the car over. Willow looks up, and sure enough, they’re at Giles’ apartment.

“Yeah.” Willow unbuckles her seat belt and opens the car door. “Thanks, Riley.”

“Wait!” Riley digs through his pocket, searching for something. Finally, he pulls out a folded piece of paper and holds it out to Willow. “Give this to Buffy, alright? Just in case she wants to go. It’s a great group, everyone’s really nice and they love getting new members.” Willow sticks the piece of paper in her pocket without looking at it.

“I’ll see you in class,” Willow says, climbing out of the car. Riley waves at her and pulls away from the curb, back out onto the street. Willow walks over and opens the door to Giles’ apartment, not bothering to knock. He’s used to sudden interruptions by this point.

Willow steps into the apartment and there, sitting on the couch with a cup of tea cradled awkwardly in his hands, is Angel.

* * *

“What do you think this is about?” Faith asks as they approach the door to Giles’ apartment. Buffy shrugs.

“Dunno,” she says. “Giles said there was some kind of danger. Maybe he found something out about the prophecy? It could be starting.”

“Maybe.” Faith hopes not. _God_ , Faith hopes not. _Not this soon. Please, not yet. I need more time before it’s over_.

“Hey, Giles,” Buffy says as she opens the door to the apartment. “What’s going—Angel?” Faith tilts her head, peering over Buffy’s shoulder, and sure enough, there’s Angel, sitting on Giles’ couch. He doesn’t seem to notice Faith—of course he doesn’t. As always, Buffy and Angel only have eyes for each other.

“Buffy,” Angel says, standing, and that seems to snap Buffy out of her trance. She flies across the room, practically tackling Angel with a hug. Faith steps inside and closes the door quietly, looking around at everything except Buffy and Angel. Willow and Xander are already there, sitting in armchairs, and Giles is hovering awkwardly by a bookshelf with a grave look on his face. Willow offers Faith a wave and a hesitant smile in greeting, and Xander makes eye contact with her without sneering. Faith takes both as signs of progress.

“What are you doing here?” Buffy says when she and Angel finally break apart. They’re doing the soulful, lovesick gazing thing that Faith saw them do a few times last year, and she barely restrains herself from rolling her eyes.

“I came to help you,” Angel says.

“Help me?” Buffy echoes, shaking her head slightly.

“Yes,” Giles says, clearing his throat to interrupt the soap opera being performed live in his living room. Buffy turns to look at him. “Angel has a friend in L.A. who gets visions. He says there’s some sort of danger to—well, to you.” Buffy looks back up at Angel, but the misty-eyed staring has been replaced by a thoughtful frown. Buffy is in Slayer mode now, not pine-after-Angel mode. _Thank God_.

“What kind of danger?” Buffy asks. Angel digs through the pocket of his trench coat, pulling out a small, spiral-bound notebook. He flips it open, looking for a specific page.

“You took notes?” Faith says, raising her eyebrows. Angel glances up at her, his eyes narrowed suspiciously. “And I’m over the serial killer phase, so quit givin’ me that look.”

“I took notes,” Angel confirms, stopping on what is apparently the right page. “It seemed kind of important.” He looks down at the notebook. “It was all fragmented, apparently,” he says. “But Doyle said he saw what looked like the end of the world. An army of demons and vampires—an actual army. Uniforms and everything. They were marching through Sunnydale, filling the streets. He said the light was weird, like the sun was hidden behind something, like an eclipse. He saw you two—“ Angel gestures at Buffy and nods in Faith’s direction. “—fighting a man in a cloak that covered his face. The man said—“ Angel pauses and lowers his notebook. Faith steps further into the room, standing a few feet behind Buffy, her heart in her throat. “The man said, ‘We all already know that one of you is going to die. Why not make it two?’” Angel slips the notebook back into his pocket, finished, and Faith closes her eyes for a moment.

 _Well, I’m fucked_.

“That sounds like the prophecy Faith informed us of,” Giles says, tapping his fingers on the top of the bookshelf absently. “The strange light matches up with the second line—the sky falling to endless night. The demon army could be the Forsaken Ones, and the man in the cloak the First Son, presuming he’s the mastermind behind—well, whatever is about to occur.” He turns to look at Angel. “Speaking of which, did your friend happen to get any sense of when this—this invasion might happen?” Angel shakes his head grimly.

“Wait a second,” Xander says, raising a hand. “Wait, back up. What was the bit about one of them dying?” He points at Buffy and Faith.

“We get death threats all the time,” Buffy says. “Comes with the Slaying.”

“No, but—“ Xander shakes his head. “The way he said it. Read the quote again.”

“Okay.” Angel pulls his notebook back out and opens it again. “He said, ‘We all already know that one of you is going to die. Why not make it two?’”

“One of them,” Xander says. “Why not just make it a standard death threat, say he’s going to feed them both their intestines?”

“Thanks for that image, Xander,” Buffy says.

“I’m serious!” Xander stands. “He said it like—like it wasn’t just a threat, or some plan of his. He said we all already know. _We all already know_.”

“Are you suggesting that there’s something foretelling one of their deaths?” Giles asks, frowning. “Something that both we and this—this _First Son_ are or will be aware of?”

“I don’t know,” Xander says, deflating. “Just—you have to admit there’s something weird there.”

_I could lie. I could lie, or just not say anything. Keep my goddamn mouth shut. I’m good at that._

“Strange, certainly,” Giles says. “But it could very well just be the ravings of a madman.”

“It isn’t.” Faith barely realizes she’s spoken the words until everyone is looking at her. She closes her eyes, blocking out Buffy’s curious frown, Xander’s suspicious glare, Willow’s confusion. She can’t look at them, not with what she has to say next.

“What?” Giles asks. Faith opens her eyes, but keeps them fixed on the patch of carpet at her feet.

“There’s—“ She takes a deep breath and shoves her hands in her pockets, hiding the way they’re trembling. “There’s another line to the prophecy. One I—I haven’t told you guys.”

“Faith?” Buffy sounds _disappointed_. Betrayed. Faith is glad she’s looking at the floor; she doesn’t want to see the look on Buffy’s face right now.

“By the order of the First Son, the Forsaken Ones shall be free of their cages,” Faith recites. “The sky shall fall to endless night until the last Slayer rises against him. Only when the—“ Her voice cracks slightly, and she swallows hard before she speaks the last line. “Only when the world is washed clean by the lifeblood of a Slayer shall light return to the earth.” The room is silent for a long moment. Faith doesn’t dare raise her head, doesn’t want to see the confusion, the anger, the disgust she knows is on Buffy’s face.

“I don’t understand,” Buffy says finally. Her voice is cold, flinty. “You’re going to die?”

“The phrasing,” Giles says from the back of the room. “The phrasing is ambiguous. The first line specifies Faith as the _last_ Slayer, but the last simply mentions _a_ Slayer.”

“Hence the danger to me,” Buffy says, the pieces falling into place. “It could be either of us.”

“One of you is going to die,” Willow says, nearly whispering, and Faith finally looks up.

Buffy is staring at her, eyes narrowed, her face carefully, flawlessly emotionless. Her arms are crossed, her jaw set. For a long moment, she simply looks at Faith, and then she says, “Get out.”

“B…” Faith whispers. Buffy shakes her head.

“Get out, Faith,” she says again, and Faith doesn’t bother arguing or pleading. She turns around and walks out the door.

* * *

Faith is halfway home by the time a car pulls up at the curb beside her. She stops, turning to look at it. It’s black, nondescript, generic other than the fact that all of the windows are also painted black. The driver’s side window rolls down a crack, just enough for Faith to see a mess of dark brown hair, though not enough to let any real light into the vehicle.

“Get in,” Angel’s voice says from inside the car.

“Fuck off,” Faith says, and starts to walk again. Angel, instead of leaving, inches the car forwards, crawling along next to the sidewalk.

“Faith,” Angel says. “Please, get in.”

“Why?” Faith snaps, stopping again and turning to glare at the blacked-out window. “You gonna yell at me for lying? Gonna kill me now, drain my blood so you can use it for the prophecy?”

“I was going to drive you home,” Angel says. “But if you’re attached to the blood draining idea, we can do that, too.” Faith rolls her eyes.

“You’re not gonna leave me alone, huh?” she says. Angel doesn’t respond, but the car stays where it is. With a sigh, Faith steps off the curb and walks around to the passenger door. “How do you drive with all this shit?” she asks as she climbs in, gesturing at the black paint covering all of the windows, but for the tiny sliver of light coming in an uncovered patch on the windshield.

“Vampire hearing,” Angel says, pulling the car away from the curb. “I can tell where all the cars around me are.” Faith is not convinced, but on the scale of dangerous things she does on a regular basis, getting in a car with blacked out windows barely even ranks.

“Listen, Faith,” Angel says after a moment. “I understand why you lied.” Faith snorts.

“Yeah?” she says. “Tell me why then, Freud.”

“You’re in love with Buffy,” Angel says. “And you’re planning on being the one to die, so there was no point in scaring her.”

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talkin’ about,” Faith says past the lump in her throat.

“I know what loving her looks like,” Angel says, glancing over at her. “I saw it enough in myself.”

“How?” Faith says. “You don’t have a reflection.” Angel half-smiles, and they ride in silence for a few minutes, until Angel takes a left and they pull to a stop.

“We’re here,” he says, turning the engine off. Faith nods and reaches for the door handle, but she hesitates before she opens the door.

“You might be right,” she says, looking back at Angel. “About me and Buffy, I mean. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter.”

“Why do you say that?” Angel says. Faith scoffs.

“Were you in that room back there?” she asks. “I lied to her. She hates me. Plus all the shit I did last year, and the part where Buffy’s straight, and that, oh, I don’t know, I’m _gonna fucking die_?”

“Faith.” Angel’s voice is soft, sympathetic, and Faith deflates. “She doesn’t hate you. And you might still have awhile left.”

“Doesn’t matter how long I have,” Faith says. “Could live fuckin’ forever, and it wouldn’t be long enough to fix what I did, get her to forgive me.”

“So what are you going to do, then?” Angel asks. “Give up?”

“Didn’t say that.” Faith crosses her arms, digging her nails into her biceps. “I’m gonna do my job. Fight vamps, save the world, die. The end. Hopefully Buffy likes me enough by then to shell out for a nice funeral, big headstone, maybe a cutesy epitaph.” Angel looks at her in silence for a moment, expression unreadable.

Finally, he says, “You’re a good person. I’m sorry I didn’t look hard enough to see that last year.” Faith shrugs uncomfortably. “Maybe Buffy loves you, maybe she doesn’t, but—Faith, you get to have her. You get to—to touch her and talk to her and see her in the sunlight. Even if she doesn’t love you, that’s more than I got. More than I’ll ever get. I’m heading back to L.A. after this because I can’t be around her because I can never _have_ that. What you have with her, it’s more than anyone deserves.”

“Easy for you to say,” Faith says. “She loved you.” She presses her hands to her face, taking a few deep breaths before she lowers them again. “Look, Angel, it’s—it’s fine, alright? Thanks for caring, but I’ve had awhile to get used to the idea. I’m okay with it.”

“Okay with dying?” Angel asks. Faith shrugs wordlessly. She waits a moment longer, but Angel doesn’t say anything else, so Faith climbs out of the car and heads into the house.

* * *

Faith isn’t sure what wakes her up. She didn’t sleep the night before—she couldn’t, after what had happened at Giles’ place and her conversation with Angel—and she had only managed to collapse into bed from sheer exhaustion this morning. A glance at her alarm clock informs her that it’s nearly four in the afternoon, and she’s about to roll over and go back to sleep when she hears the kitchen sink running downstairs.

_What the fuck?_

Faith climbs out of bed and gets dressed in moments. She grabs a stake from her bedside table, sticking it in the waistband of her pants before she leaves the room. She makes her way down the stairs silently, one hand resting on the stake. Carefully, Faith peers around the corner into the kitchen and there, stirring something in a bowl with a deep frown on her face and an apron on, is Buffy.

“B,” Faith says, stepping into the kitchen. Buffy starts slightly and turns to look at Faith. “What are you doing here?”

“Cooking,” Buffy says, looking back down at her bowl.

“Cooking,” Faith echoes, stepping closer. “Why?”

“It’s Thanksgiving.”

“Right,” Faith says slowly. “I, uh, I figured you’d be doing that back at G’s after yesterday. Do—d’you want me to clear out for a few hours tonight? Let you guys have your thing?”

“What—“ Buffy shakes her head and sets down her wooden spoon, turning to look at Faith. “Faith, what are you talking about? You’re still coming to Thanksgiving.”

“I am?” Faith stares at her. “I thought—with the prophecy and all, I just assumed that was it. I figured it was over.”

“Over?” Buffy asks, shaking her head.

“Yeah.” Faith shrugs. “The being friends, Thanksgiving, all of it. Was sorta waiting on you kicking me out, actually.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say.” Buffy tugs on the neck of her apron absently. “Am I angry? Yeah, of course I’m angry. You had no right to hide that from me—from any of us. But—I don’t do things by halves, Faith. We’re friends, alright? And even if I mostly just want to punch you right now, you’re still coming to Thanksgiving.” Faith swallows hard, looking down at her feet.

“You can punch me,” she says, “if it’ll help.”

“It won’t.” Buffy turns back to her bowl, stirring furiously. “It won’t fix anything. Besides, we said that wasn’t how we wanted to do things anymore.” Faith shrugs.

“Could make you feel better.” Buffy sighs heavily and pauses in her stirring to add something else to the bowl.

“I’m not going to hit you, Faith,” she says. “Just—look, you were going to make dinner rolls, right?”

“What?” Faith says. “Um, yeah. Yeah, I have the dough in the fridge.”

“Alright then,” Buffy says, gesturing with her spoon. “Get to work.” Utterly perplexed, Faith opens the refrigerator.

They work in silence for awhile. It’s not the sort of silence Faith has been getting used to with Joyce—there’s nothing relaxed or comfortable about it. Instead, there’s tension in the air, in the way Buffy carefully avoids making eye contact with Faith. Faith hates it, but she doesn’t dare break the silence. She doesn’t want to destroy whatever fragile truce they have right now.

“I’m gonna take a break,” Faith finally says, after the rolls are in the oven and the counter is wiped clean. “I’ll—be outside.” Before Buffy can respond, Faith leaves the kitchen, headed for the front door.

It’s cool outside. It’s nowhere near the biting cold Faith had grown up with in Boston, or even the cold of the desert at night in Roswell. Instead, the slight shiver the air sends down Faith’s spine is almost refreshing. Faith leans one shoulder against one of the beams on the porch and closes her eyes, counting her breaths in her head until she hears the door open behind her.

“Everyone will be here soon,” Buffy says, closing the door behind her. Faith doesn’t say anything. Buffy steps up beside her, and Faith opens her eyes. In her peripheral vision, she can see Buffy standing there, hands in her pockets.

“I didn’t do it to hurt you,” Faith says, staring into the street instead of looking at Buffy. “The—the lying, about the prophecy. I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”

“How did you think I was going to feel?” Buffy says. “You—you had no right to hide that from me. You didn’t tell me I was going to _die_. Do you know how much of a betrayal that is?” Faith finally glances over at her. Buffy has tears in her eyes, and Faith has to turn away again, unable to hold her gaze.

“It’s not like that,” Faith says. “You’re not going to die.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yeah, I do.” Faith turns, putting her back to the beam and forcing herself to look at Buffy. “You’re not going to die because it’s going to be me. Alright? The prophecy is mine. I’m not going to let you die.”

“Faith—“

“It just makes sense,” Faith continues, talking over Buffy. “You’re—you’re gonna have a life, alright? I die, and the next Slayer gets called, and she’ll be better than me, and—and you’ll get your retirement. She can take over, and you’ll get to have a normal life. Work things out with Angel, or marry some other guy. Have a couple of kids, have a hundred more fuckin’ Thanksgivings with your friends. You’re gonna have a _life_ , Buffy. But if you die? If you die and I live…” Faith shakes her head. “What am _I_ gonna do with a life?” Buffy is crying for real now, her jaw clenching as the tears in her eyes begin to escape.

“I don’t accept that,” Buffy says, shaking her head. “I don’t—I don’t want all that. Not if you have to die for it.” Faith laughs, short and bitter.

“Too bad, B,” she says. “I ain’t letting you die.” She reaches out, resting one hand on Buffy’s upper arm. “It’s okay,” she says, as gently as she can manage. “It’s okay. I’ve had some time to get used to it.” Buffy shakes her head roughly, and Faith shifts her hand to Buffy’s cheek, wiping at her tears. Faith isn’t sure any of the comfort she’s trying to offer Buffy is actually wanted, but she can’t stop herself, not with Buffy crying in front of her.

“‘Sides,” Faith says. “It’s better this way, you know? If I lived, I don’t know, maybe I’d last a few more years, stop a few apocalypses, whatever. But you and me both know I wouldn’t be around that long. Not made for gettin’ old.” She lets her hand fall from Buffy’s face, but Buffy catches it and twines their fingers together. “You’ve got a future, B,” Faith says, looking down at their hands, at the place Buffy’s thumb rests over hers. “I don’t. You deserve to live.”

“So do you,” Buffy says. Faith just laughs again. “I’m not going to let you just—just _die_.”

“We’ve got a bit of a problem, then,” Faith says. “I’m not letting you die, either.” Buffy smiles slightly, wiping the last of her tears away and gripping Faith’s hand a bit tighter. She seems to be on the verge of saying something when a voice speaks up from beside them.

“Is this a bad time?” Willow asks from the bottom of the porch steps, Tara beside her. Buffy yanks her hand out of Faith’s as though she’s been burned and takes a step back, widening the distance between them.

“No,” Buffy says, clearing her throat. “No, come on in.”

* * *

It’s clearly an emotional moment that Tara and Willow have stepped into the middle of. Willow had explained to Tara before they left the dorms that there’s some sort of prophecy predicting either Buffy or Faith’s death. Willow had tried to talk it down, claimed that Buffy had _died before and been fine_ , but Tara is concerned nonetheless. She _likes_ Buffy and Faith, would like to spend more time with them without either of them being dead, no matter how ill-advised befriending a couple of Slayers might be.

(In her research, Tara has learned that Slayers are supposed to have a supernatural ability to sense demonic energy, to detect demons and vampires in disguise. Neither Buffy nor Faith seems to have picked up on Tara’s demon yet, but the more time she spends around them, the greater the risk of discovery.)

Buffy and Faith are holding hands as Willow and Tara approach the house. They both seem totally unaware of the presence of anyone else in their vicinity, and Tara can’t blame them—from what she can sense of their auras, they’re completely wrapped up in each other. She had sort of picked up on it at the Bronze the first time she met them, but it’s more apparent now than ever. She’s never seen two people so spiritually intertwined.

Not for the first time, Tara wonders about the exact nature of Buffy and Faith’s relationship.

“Is this a bad time?” Willow asks as they stop at the bottom of the porch steps. Buffy jumps back from Faith and drops her hand, and Tara notices a momentary flash of disappointment on Faith’s face before it vanishes.

“No,” Buffy says. “No, come on in.” As a group, the four of them head into the house. “I didn’t know you were coming, Tara,” Buffy says as she leads them into the living room. Tara glances over at Willow uncertainly, and Willow winces.

“I forgot to mention it,” she says. “What with—well, you know. Yesterday.”

“I’m sorry to show up uninvited,” Tara says, looking down at her feet. “I don’t mean to intrude.”

“Hey, no,” Buffy says, smiling at her. “You’re invited. Consider yourself invited to—well, everything, from now on. You’re one of us.” Tara nods, though the voice in the back of her head that sounds like her father says _they don’t even know you, and they won’t like you when they do_.

Willow shoots Tara a proud smile, one that says _see? I told you they love you_. She takes Tara’s hand as they sit down on the couch, and Tara does her best to enjoy the contact only as much as she’s supposed to, as a friend. It’s not Willow’s fault that Tara’s emotions are…a little out of control, and Tara is determined to not take advantage of Willow’s tactile nature.

“Fancy cheeses, anybody?” Faith asks as she walks into the living room from the kitchen, carrying a platter of little cheese slices and crackers.

“They’re called hors d’oeuvres, Faith,” Buffy says, rolling her eyes as she takes the platter from Faith and sets it down on the coffee table in front of Tara and Willow. The doorbell rings.

“I’ll get it,” Faith says, and disappears down the hall. Moments later, she reappears with Xander and a girl Tara doesn’t know in tow.

“Hello,” the girl says, looking at Tara. “You’re new.”

“Y-yeah,” Tara says. “I’m Tara.”

“I’m Anya.” The girl sits down on the floor next to the coffee table and immediately begins to assemble a complicated cheese-and-cracker double decker sandwich. There’s something… _strange_ about the girl’s aura—Tara would call it ancient if the girl didn’t look about twenty years old and completely human—but Xander is watching her fiddle with her crackers with a fond half-smile, and no one else seems to find her remotely out of place, so Tara decides not to worry about it.

An older man who Willow introduces as Giles, Buffy’s Watcher that Tara has heard quite a bit about, arrives a few minutes later, and soon, the living room is filled with a buzz of conversation and laughter. Tara is quiet for the most part, holding Willow’s hand and listening to Willow talk and laugh and reminisce with her friends. Eventually, though, she realizes that if she doesn’t want to lose all semblance of control and try to kiss Willow right here and now, she needs to take a break. Quietly, Tara excuses herself, going to the kitchen to get a glass of water.

As she stands against the refrigerator, sipping her water and trying to stop wondering what Willow’s chapstick would taste like, Tara hears voices in the hall outside the kitchen. It takes her a moment to recognize them, but one is distinctly masculine—and not British—and the other has a strong Boston accent.

Xander and Faith.

“If you want me to leave,” Faith is saying, “I will. This is your thing, your friends. I’m not gonna ruin your Thanksgiving.” Xander is quiet for a moment, long enough that Tara considers returning to the living room. Whatever this conversation is about, it’s none of her business.

Then Xander says, “You can stay. You’re not gonna ruin my night. You don’t have that kind of power over me.”

“Good,” Faith says. “Good. I’m glad.” Neither of them say anything more, and Tara sets her glass in the sink before she heads back to the living room.

Faith and Buffy are sitting side by side on the floor when Tara gets back. They’re not particularly close together—certainly not as close as Tara and Willow have been all night—and maybe Tara’s ability to sense their auras is affecting her perception, but…Buffy is laughing at something Willow said, and Faith is grinning at her, gaze fixed on Buffy’s face, and it seems obvious to Tara that there’s _something_ between them.

Tara glances around the room, but no one else is taking notice of the byplay between Faith and Buffy. Apparently, this is par for the course for the two of them.

Tara wonders if they even know how much they mean to each other.

* * *

Buffy is about to bring out the desserts when there’s another knock on the door. She glances up from the pie she’s attempting to balance on one forearm to exchange a confused frown with Faith.

“Did you invite somebody?” she asks. Faith gives her a skeptical look.

“Everyone I know in this town is already here,” she points out.

“Fair enough.” Buffy sets down her pie and hurries over to the door, Faith close behind her. It’s well into the night now, and dark enough outside that Buffy can’t see anything but her own reflection in the windows, so she doesn’t bother looking outside before she pulls open the door.

A man in a dark purple cloak is standing on the front porch. He’s tall, taller than any human Buffy has ever met, around seven feet. Beneath the cloak, his clothing is nondescript—black button down, black slacks. His hood is up, but the porch light is on, and by all rights, Buffy should be able to see his face, but it’s as though he’s exuding darkness, keeping his features in shadow. Buffy can’t see anything but the faint suggestion of a nose and the line of a brow bone.

“Hello, Slayer,” the man says. His voice is deep, smooth, with a faint hint of an accent that Buffy can’t place. “Happy Thanksgiving.” Buffy remembers the vision Angel had described that day—a man in a cloak, fighting Faith and Buffy. This man, or demon, or whatever he is, certainly fits the big bad description.

“Nope,” Buffy says. “I’m not doing this today. Go back to whatever hell dimension you crawled out of and come back tomorrow.” The man laughs. A faint buzzing sounds, and all the lights in the house, as well as the porch light, go out. Buffy hears a confused cry go up from the dining room, where her friends have just been rudely interrupted by the power outage.

“You heard her,” Faith says, stepping up beside Buffy, their shoulders brushing. “Fuck off.” The man shakes his head, and Buffy thinks she can almost see a smile beneath his hood. Every light in every house down the block flickers out.

“Spirited, aren’t we?” the man says. “I do like it when heroes have fire.”

“And I like knowing demons’ names before I end them,” Faith says, leaning forwards—though she stays within the threshold. It’s a good precaution, though Buffy isn’t sure what this guy is, or if the invitation rule applies to him. He might even be human, height aside, although something about the way his presence is making the back of Buffy’s neck prickle makes her doubt that. “So, who and what are you?” The man tips his head at them, as though he’s sizing them up, and the prickling sensation grows in strength.

“I’ve been called a lot of things,” he says. “I’m rather attached to John. John the Evangelist, if you will.” That doesn’t mean anything to Buffy, but Faith frowns deeply beside her, confusion settling across her features.

“I do like you two,” John continues, ignoring Faith’s reaction. “The Chosen Two. Both Slayers, bound together by the burden of destiny. It all has a certain drama to it, doesn’t it? A certain panache. It’s charming.”

“Shut the hell up,” Faith says. Buffy glances over at her and does a double take, eyes widening. _Where was she hiding that knife_?

“Ooh, threatening,” John says mockingly, apparently unintimidated by an angry Slayer with six inches of glittering steel in her hand. “Calm down, I’m not going to hurt you or your friends. Not tonight, anyway. No, I just thought I’d stop by and introduce myself. What better night for new friends, hm?”

“How about instead I stab you right here and we get this over with?” Faith asks, raising her knife. John shakes his head, laughing quietly.

“But that’s not what’s foretold, is it?” he says. “The Fates are cruel mistresses, but they are never wrong.” He steps backwards, away from the house. “Your time is ending, Slayers,” he says. “Humanity itself is coming to a close. _The sky shall fall_ , remember?”

“Where the hell did you hear that?” Faith says. She steps forward, over the threshold. Buffy grabs her arm and pulls her back inside, though John doesn’t move to attack her.

“That’s a mystery,” John says, taking another step back. “Please, tell me when you figure it out. I’d love to see the looks on your faces.” Suddenly, all the lights on the block come back on. Buffy and Faith turn in unison, looking up at the lights inside the house, and when they turn back, John has vanished, as though he was never there.

“Well, _shit_ ,” Faith says, which summarizes Buffy’s feelings fairly effectively. Buffy looks back over at her. The knife has vanished once more.

“Come on,” Buffy says, closing the door. “Back to the kitchen. We’re not letting that guy ruin your first Thanksgiving.” Faith grins, shaking her head in a way that Buffy almost wants to call affectionate, and follows Buffy back into the kitchen. They grab the various deserts on the counter and carry them back into the dining room, where all of their friends are still seated, looking confused.

“Who was at the door?” Xander asks.

“No,” Buffy says. “Mysterious, evil, ominous, possibly demonic figures and their warnings of impending doom are not going to ruin Thanksgiving, understand?” Xander blinks at her.

“Uh,” he says. “Okay.”

“A demon?” Giles asks from the head of the table. “Did you kill it?”

“Maybe demon,” Faith says, reclaiming her seat. “Tall, creepy dude in a cloak. Knew all about the prophecy.”

“The man from Angel’s friend’s vision,” Willow says, uncharacteristically solemn. Buffy nods, swallowing hard.

“It looks that way,” she says. “He just dropped a few vague threats, knocked the power out, and left.”

“Could you identify him?” Giles asks, leaning over the table.

“He called himself John,” Buffy says, frowning. “John the Evangelist.”

“Like the saint,” Faith says from beside Buffy. As one, everyone at the table turns to look at her, identical surprised expressions on their faces. “What?” Faith asks, raising an eyebrow. “Recovering Catholic over here. Besides, that’s not exactly an obscure reference.”

“Well,” Giles says, adjusting his glasses. “Beyond the obvious Biblical allusion, nothing springs to mind in terms of who he might be. I’ll have to—“

“Research,” Buffy says. “But can we please not talk shop all night? It’s a holiday from school. I’m making it a holiday from Slaying and death prophecies, too.” She looks around the table, but no one argues, not even Anya, who is the most likely person to argue in any given situation.

“Right,” Faith says, grabbing a knife from the table this time instead of wherever she’s hiding her weapon. “Who wants pie?”

They migrate into the living room not long after that, carrying slices of pie on Buffy’s mom’s fancy china plates. Someone turns on the TV, where some old movie is playing—black and white, old-timey accents. Buffy turns the volume down, and the swells and dips of the orchestral soundtrack play quietly in the background as the night wears on.

Buffy spends most of her time looking at Faith. She tries to do it subtly, to only stare when no one else is looking, but she can’t keep her eyes to herself. Faith is getting along with Buffy’s friends better than ever before, laughing and joking, looking like she belongs here, in Buffy’s living room with a half-empty glass of champagne. There’s something forming in Buffy’s chest, a knot of emotion and heat that leaves a sickly sweet taste in the back of Buffy’s throat.

(Buffy knows what that emotion is, even if she refuses to put a name to it.)

Quietly, Buffy mentally acknowledges that she isn’t angry at Faith for keeping the prophecy a secret, not really. No, she’s angry that Faith had thought Buffy would be _okay_ with this, had thought that Buffy would just let her die. She’s angry that Faith had allowed Buffy to care about her, to want to help her, to start to fall—

Buffy cuts that thought off before it can fully form. She can’t—she _won’t_ —think about that.

Buffy isn’t going to let Faith die. Buffy’s anger, Faith’s lies, her reasons for those lies, all of it be damned, Buffy won’t let her die. She’ll find a way to cheat the prophecy, she decides, a way to keep both of them alive.

And _then_ she’ll kill Faith for lying to her.

Giles is the first to leave, pleading exhaustion and receiving a whole round of jokes about his age in return. Xander and Anya leave soon after that. Anya makes their excuses in the form of bluntly sexual comments, which no one can think of a reply to. Willow and Tara stay for awhile longer, until Tara is practically falling asleep on Willow’s shoulder and Buffy walks them to the door, Faith a few steps behind.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Buffy,” Willow says, stepping forward and pulling Buffy into a hug. Buffy squeezes her tightly before stepping back and hugging Tara, too. Buffy can feel Tara tensing under the contact even as she returns the hug, so she keeps it brief and mostly impersonal.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Wil,” Buffy says as Willow and Tara step out onto the porch.

“Wait!” Willow reaches into the back pocket of her jeans. “I almost forgot. Riley told me to give you this.” She holds out a folded piece of paper. Buffy takes it, frowning in confusion.

“What is it?” she asks. Willow shrugs.

“Dunno. I’ll see you.” With that, she and Tara walk away, Tara waving shyly over her shoulder. Buffy closes the door behind them and turns to Faith, unfolding the piece of paper. Her eyes go wide as she scans it, and she feels her jaw drop.

“Everything okay, B?” Faith asks. Buffy shakes her head, utterly perplexed.

“Why,” she says, turning the paper around so Faith can see where it says _UC Sunnydale Lesbian Alliance_ in large letters, “does Riley think I’m a lesbian?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and there y'all have it. the last line of the prophecy, tara's feelings, buffy's sort-of feelings, many many feelings. i hope it was worth the wait <3
> 
> i'm on tumblr @daisys-quake and on twitter @thoughtsintoink; feel free to hit me up either place any time! please leave a comment and kudos if you enjoyed; comments literally keep me—and this fic!—alive.


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